Ash and Blaze
by Magnipotence
Summary: On his search for the unknown, America encounters the entities come to be known as the 'Second Players' whose strange ways and brutal nature make him only realise that his adventure into the parallel world could unravel the very fabric of the universe.
1. Thought

**WARNING. **

**Trigger subjects are used. Such as: Uses of drugs [marijuna] and an overuse of Science that may offend some religious beliefs. Please read at your own risk.  
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Level II

**One: **_Thought_

**XXX**

"_Goodbye Earth, hello Moon. Fancy meeting you so soon.  
>I'm taking leave, taking flight, leave the universe in light"<em>

_Terminal _by Globus

**XXX**

On a cold Saturday morning, in the month of May and on the eve of June, Alfred finds himself sitting abnormally quiet on the dark-wooded floor of his brother's living room with his back pressed up against the overstuffed arm of the overstuffed couch covered in cheeto dust. It feels as if he floats in and out existence, his body simple mist as the world melts and builds back up all around him.

He is there. He is not. And so he floats.

"Hey, Mattie..." His voice is breezy, wheezy, as his lungs take in more of the smoke that drifts around the room, blurrying its items and decor. "You still alive?" Just a simple question – something silly to ask a nation, but Alfred barely can feel his body at the moment.

His brother is somewhere, _somewhere_, in the endless plane behind him that he cannot see. From all he could know, there could be nothing behind his head and only such came into existence as soon as his eyes turned in that direction. Nothing and everything could exist beyond what he cannot see.

"Mmm." His brother groans, his quiet voice rising out from the dark and the mist. "_Mmmmm. _I am..._existing _right now. Am I here, Al? Are we alive?"

"_Nope!" _

"Fuck!"

The smoke is thick, but Alfred can still make out the different materials of the room even without his glasses. Even though his amazing eyesight goes from superhero capability to jackshit as soon as his glasses are removed, he can still make out the coffee stains from the mug of it he dropped earlier, his brother's dying plants (Matthew was always shit at taking care of stuff that couldn't take care of itself), the plaid armchair that is probably older than half his states, and a fireplace that had seen the transition over into gas some time ago. His brother's living room is _plain__, he realises, and that the probably only interesting thing it is the original painting of some asshole artist whose 'DARKENED SOUL' led to him to monstrousity on his brother's wall_.

"Hey Mattie, I just realised." Alfred suddenly says, over Matthew's ugly furniture and shitty art taste already.

"What? Have you finally...finally realised you're the biggest idiot _ever_."

"_No. _That we're old as _balls._"

"We're not _that _old–"

"You were found by that...that...Danish guy. Or was it his stony-faced friend...? _Scandanavia._ Well, fuck. Anyway, they found you in 896 when they discovered Newfound...land."

"Newfies," Matthew snorts. "God, I love the Newfies."

"You make fun of them all the time!"

"Of course! It's not like you don't make fun of your fifty-something states."

"Not the point! The point is...The point...Point..." Alfred trails off, his train of thought dying along with his speech. He slides down some, resting his chin on his chest and lets his thoughts wonder. "We're so old, man." Alfred murmurs. "And we haven't done _a lot_."

"What's there to do, Al? Our job is to make sure Europe doesn't 'toe out of line' while trying to keep ourselves in check. Our job is to pretty much babysit Europe and the Middle East. Of course, you're the bully babysitter that forces the Middle East to pump your car and get you illegal cigarettes. Other than that...We're left to pretty much do this."

"Get baked? Speaking... Also! I am not a bully, Canada! I am a responsible adult who is merely trying to help the unfortunate as difficult as they may be. Now where's the damn thing?"

"Hold on..._Hold _on...Shit fuck penis. I think Kuma ate the bowl."

"_What?_ Is your bear's digestive system fucking _boss_? Or has it ascended to fucking God-Tier? If I ate a bowl, I'm pretty sure it would _not _be –"

"No...Wait. _Wait. _Found it! What were you saying?"

"Oh, uh. Old as balls, right. We haven't done a lot, Mattie. We're literally, like over a _millennia_ now years of age, and _fuck –_ we haven't even been outside of our solar system!"

"There's can't be a lot out there, Al. It's all silence and balls of fire."

"There's gotta be life out there, Mattie. Look at Tony!"

"Even if there is, who in their fucking right _mind _would stop willing on _this _planet? We go forth in the name of the man who lives in the sky. Alfred, we believe in a man _who lives on a cloud_. Besides, Tony is a dick and he doesn't even want to _be _here. He wants to go home and you won't let him."

"God, you're such a fucking pessimist."

"No, Al. I'm realistic."

"You're supposed to be stoned right now! You're not supposed to be _realistic. _Fuck realism. Now hand over that pipe before I pass out."

"Hold on, fatass. Besides, this is a bowl and this is _my _weed."

"Speaking of the weed, where do you even _get _this stuff? The Netherlands? This shit is off the _house, _nigga."

"Al, I'm whiter than you are. And fuck, I can barely get Kumajirou through customs without them thinking I'm _cray-cray. _With the world as paranoid as it is, even I can't get high-grade illegal narcotics past the eyes of the system and on the aeroplanes. A live polar bear is apparently just a bit too much to ask for."

"Even on your private jet?"

"Al, I don't _have _a private jet."

_"What! _Fuck, I know what I'm getting you for your birthday then–"

"I swear if you show up with a _fucking jet _on my _birthday_, I will kick your _ass_. You're in a recession, asshole!"

"Don't worry, man! I've got this Barack Brobama has totally got my back!"

"Did you really just call your president, 'Brobama'–"

"He's cool with it, man. He's cool."

"Yeah, _sure._"

Alfred can feel Matthew slide down and out from the plane of reality of which the Canadian had surrounded himself with and settle down next to him. The bowl in his hand is visible through the thinning mist that has invaded their silly lives, shiny with the melted glass it's made up of and loaded up and ready to go. His brother brings the mouth of the bowl to his lips, readies the lighter to light up, and Alfred can only watch in silence and appreciate the beauty and grace of which his brothers get fucking loaded.

A loud expletive burst through the silence when Matthew's thumb catches on the flame of the lighter. "We need one of those...gas lighter things. My thumb isn't going to be a thumb after all of this."

"Because you got girly hands, bro." Alfred points out. "But man up, Matt. If you were a man like me, you wouldn't have this problem."

"Go fuck yourself, Al." Matthew shakes his head and steadies the lighter, taking his own long, blissful hit before handing it over to his brother. Alfred does the same as his brother but with no where near as much grace and etheral _awesome _and settles down against the side of the couch.

Both brothers fall back into a state of eerie bliss – the troubles and difficulties floating out and away with the smoke. They leave their bodies, leaving mortal shells behind and float on.

"Do you think there's life...out there...in different places?" Alfred breathes the smoke out with words, revelling in the burning of his throat, and watching fascinated as the smoke tumbles out from his throat and joins its breathern in space. Alfred wonders if he has dragon breath. "Not...space. Not...the universe. At least...Not this one."

"Maybe," His brother's voice fades back into that calm, peaceful tone once more. "I like to think that...sometimes, you know, we're not alone. That...That we're not the only dickbags in the universe, but to think...Of there being more? is a little hard, Al...A lot of hard..."

"It's hard to think of that...when we can barely fat...fash..._fathom _our own solar system, let alone a multitude of universes, but I belie...ve in them. I want to visit one one day and see what I did to create that universe. Like, I wonder what that universe would look like if I was on the 'Man's' side of the Drug War. We sure as hell wouldn't be doing _this._"

"That would be _terrible."_

"Yeah, _any _universe I went to too! Probably. I'd probably...fuck shit up without even touchin' anything!" America's head droops slightly, but he continues on with his talk. "Did...Did you know that the centre of our galaxy is a black hole? What...What would happen if you went into that black hole, man? Would we be ripped to shreds or thrown out into an alternate universe where we breath hydrogen instead of oxygen?"

"Well, what's...the difference between a blackhole and...wormhole? Because I don't think–"

"Well, either way! There's gotta be parallel universes out there, Mattie. Seriously. _Seriously._"

"How? How would they be fashioned?"

"From, god, _anything_! General accepted idea that a parallel universe is created...at the opposite of a done action. There are millions, _millions_, of parallel universes, Mattie. Some suggest that there are more parallel universes than there are stars. And Matt, there's a _lot _of stars."

The Canadian sighs. "Stars are so pretty, Al."

"They are." Alfred agrees. "Even though half of them are dead and have been dead before we were even thought of."

"...Thanks for telling me that." He takes back his bowl with slight force as if offended by Alfred's truth. Everyone hates the truth. No one likes it. What did truth ever do to them? Truth exists to tell the truth. Millions of the stars they see, they fawn over, they love are dead and blew out long ago. Truth did nothing but tell the truth. It is not truth's fault that the stars are dead. He did not kill the stars.

Matthew takes another hit from the bowl, his thumb almost being burnt by the lighter as he attempts to angle it just right. He breathes out the smoke from his nose almost like a dragon. Alfred takes the next hit, blowing a plethora of rings of smoke from his mouth.

Silence uncomfortably settles over them. It leaves the brothers confused and quiet.

Then, Matthew suddenly is the one to break the silence.

"_Ekki-Ekki-Ekki-Ekki-PTANG. Zoom-Boing. Z'nourrwringmm."_

Both brothers burst into outrageous laughter at the quote, falling besides themselves with the whole stupidity of the situation. As stupid as it is, as dumb as the random quote is, it is something however that sets them over the edge with laughter and happiness, their ribs and lungs aching. Then again, stone-cold sober or stupidly stoned, Monty Phython is _always _funny.

Then, the smoke of the room thins out with their laughter. Slowly, they return to their bodies – the weight of themselves suddenly pushed upon them once again and cancelling out their last chuckles. They settle uncomfortably in their humans, yearning to float on again.

"Man, we're so _unfunny. _While we're on the subject though, have you gotten a shrubbery yet?" Matthew chuckles and asks.

"I don't know about you, but there was just a universe created where it was _I _who said that and it was you who got the shrubbery but it died because you're shit at plants. Also, I don't know if you realised but we're fucking _hilarious_."

"Well, there's a universe that was just created where I just slapped you across the face. I _almost _did it, Al! But then I decided that I'm the adult here."

"Fuck you, Mattie. God, you're so immature. Fight me."

"Um, no. Your idea of fighting since the Cold War is pulling at my hair and calling me names and telling me I take dick."

"God, just because Russia doesn't want to brawl with me any more doesn't mean I can't take you on _bro.__ This isn't just fat man. This is pure American muscle! Also, you do take dick. Remember the Netherlands and the Switzerland incident?"_

"Holy shit, he was _so _pissed. Well, there's a universe then where I can kick _your _ass!"

"I'm the one he came after! He thought I was you and he still does! And for bringing that up, I'm going to murder that universe then. That universe has just made itself an _enemy._"

"You brought it up asshole! Besides, I'm not the one who caught giving someone head!"

"_You did not just bring that up, I fucking tripped you dickbag –"_

"Yeah okay, Al. Dude, his dick was _out_ –"

"You're being ignored now."

"Oh just like every _other _day?"

The conversation suddenly dies off; the twins lapse quietly into a state of silence at Matthew's cold words. The smoke thins some more, and begins to clear out. Objects in the room slowly return to sight. Matthew's dead plants look even more dead. As the high dies, their bodies settle and they feel even more foreign and uncomfortable.

"Do parallel universes die?" Matthew suddenly pipes up, wanting to get over the hump that normally divides them daily.

"Probably, man. Probably. Probably get sucked up by a big ol' black hole in the blink of an eye. Or they just die 'cause they can go no further. Could happen to us, ya know."

"We _would _be that unlucky, Al."

"Yeah, definitely. Some day some aliens will be floatin' on by and see our wreck of a home planet or at least the shit outside our atmosphere because there would probably _be _nothing left of our planet and ask: 'Oh hey, what happened to those assholes?' 'Oh you know, like a bunch of noobs, they got sucked up by a fucking black hole.' 'What dickbags!'" Despite it only being remotely funny, Alfred giggles stupidly and snorts at his own humour, thinking how he should probably take a hit at professional comedy before he suddenly lets out a depressing sigh. "What fuckery. Man, this just makes me depressed."

"Why? It's not going to really happen, Al. At least while we're still...'alive'."

The American fiddles with the bowl resting in his hands without thought. When did it get there? "It's not that. It's that we don't have access to _anything_. Not to God, not to the universe, not to the outside of the galaxy, not to even fucking _alternate realities. _Mattie, I've just realised. We _suck_."

"Alfred –"

"No seriously, we _suck_. We could do so much but we let the fact that we're human get in the way. _We _could totally survive a black hole. Sure, we might get ripped to _shreds, _but we'd live. Maybe regenerate and shit. I did get my leg pretty fucked up in the Great War and it healed up pretty nicely and it was almost entirely gone. Either way, we'd so fucking live as long as our country is still alive. Hopefully, our respawn time won't be as bad as every other immortal out there."

"God, Jesus' lag time was _horrible_."

"Yeah, I know! Three days! But Mattie, can you imagine it?"

"Jesus taking forever to respawn? Well their system was probably _really _outdated back then and totally primitive to ours–"

"No, asshole. Imagine the world opposite of ours. I would be such a _dick_. Like every testosterone fuelled teenager of today but _worse _and _immortal."_

_"_But what could cause that? Every action opposite of the world of this one would have to lead to separate parallel worlds and nothing would add up."

"Yeah, there's probably thousands of worlds, maybe _millions_, of alternate realities created at the hands of our stupidity. Like, imagine if it had been Rome that had been burnt down by Hannibal and his hairy men."

"They weren't hairy, Al."

"They're Egyptian, God! Haven't you ever seen Egypt with his shirt off? He's _hairy_."

"Alfred, Egypt's on the otherside of Africa. Carthage is near Tunisia, you ignorant asshole."

"God, Mattie. Everyone knows the world map consists of America and America alone! Leave me alone! But don't worry, you'll be on that map when you unify with me."

"Hopefully, my government decides that unification with you is something they have nothing to do with at the moment–"

"Mattie, that doesn't matter. Seriously, just _imagine_. Imagine the world where Erik the Red crashed and burnt and never encountered Greenland or Newfie-world. Imagine if Napoleon had defeated the Russians at their own games and never had to deal with Waterloo and his himilating defeat and banishment. Imagine if England was left to itself and the Romans decided 'fuck this shit. Islands suck balls!' and we never got invaded by Sir Pubic Eyebrows of the Hairy Gentleman. Think of the worlds–"

"Imagine the world where you lost the war." Canada's voice is quiet, and his thought seems careless. The words cause the American to halt his ever-constant moving train of thought. It squeals on its tracks, almost curving over as it attempts to slow down from its fast speed. The thoughtless child on the tracks smiles and curses him with a new thought.

Yes, _yes. _Imagine _that_ world. A terrifying prospect that hurts to imagine. That world would have been brutual – a world where he would be forced to live something that was not him and something that would never be him. He would have no voice – just another one of the several boys Arthur has ruined in his quest for global conquest. He would have no freedom, no choice, no friends or family. He would be doomed and lost and be forced to march under the Queen without the comfort of Cheetos to guide him.

Sure, his brother had remained under British control and he was free today, but who is to say that if America did the same thing that the world would be the same? Sure, the Commonwealths is something great and dandy and the one club he could never_ officially_ enter, but if he rode under the British flag – _would _the world be the same? Would the same technologies, the same advancements, the same _things _have happened? Would _he _be the same?

"That sounds like a shitty parallel universe." Alfred answers after a moment, the train back on its track and the child with the thoughtless thought dead beneath the some 200 tons of black American steel. "God, I'd have to deal with Arthur's cooking _forever_. Fuck, that just sounds _terrible_. And I'd have to be a gentleman and I couldn't burp in public any more! Holy shit, _Mattie. _If I lost the war, I wouldn't have Jersey Shore! Mattie, _I wouldn't have cheetos. _What kind of life is that!"

Canada shoots him a disturbed look. "What did you _do _before there was television?"

"Farming and sleeping, _duh."_

"You're sounding increasingly sober, Al. And so I am. Take a hit. Let's run this batch dry."

"Fine, fine." He brings the mouth of the bowl to his lips, almost latching on before hesitating. He looks down at the bowl with a quiet thought and then looks at his brother.

"The universe where I'm everything I'm not is the one universe I don't want to go."

"But with our luck..."

"...That's exactly where I'll end up. And –"

"Yeah, sure, Al. Take a hit."

Alfred takes a deep hit, burning up the rest of what's in the bowl, and coughs out the burning feel that collects in his chest. He holds out the bowl to his brother, rests his arms and head on his knees and laughs like an idiot.

"Hey, bro! I'm fuckin' gonna find my way into a parallel universe! Just you wait and see!"

**XXX**

And eventually, he _does._

**XXX**

"_One million black holes in my head. Swiss cheese brain, those cells are dead.  
>No carbon matter goes to waste,<br>I'll dissipate in endless space."  
><em>-_ Terminal _by Globus

* * *

><p>Um...<strong>noh hoy youy me noy.<br>**Sorry for the derp I guess and the high North American bros.

Anyway, review and favourite if you care enough to.

Well, I forgot the trigger warning.**  
><strong>


	2. Action

**Level II**

**Two: **_Action_

**XXX**

"_You wake up believing this day will end by evening  
>It's taken for granted that seeds of life are planted<br>But nothing prepares you for nature's acts of virtue  
>It's Doomsday, ascending, the world you know is ending"<em>

_Doomsday _by Globus

**XXX**

Alfred is a genius.

He is a freaking _genius._

There is no other logical solution or understanding that he cannot be one! He has known for some time now that he is indeed intelligent, but he would have never figured such a thing would have leaded him to where he is now. Combined with his vast superior knowledge and his recent discoveries, the American can come now to the only logical solution that he is a _fucking genius. _

As he paces the tiled floor of his laboratory, surrounded by dead specimen and dead organs and dead things all around, he thinks his plan over and over again like a mantra in his mind. He has to do this, he _must _do this. He'll be the only to benefit from this. Maybe Canada will break his codes, find his notes, and follow in his steps in the event of his death or even his lack of returning, but for what reason? Canada doesn't have reason. Alfred can't say that his reason is valid either and it isn't like the human race certainly _cared _about an adventure into the _very fucking universe _**itself**, but Alfred does understand that this is something he's got to do and he's got to do _now_.

He's got one chance. _One fucking chance._ To make it through his portal fashioned from dreams and sleepless nights and into the centre of the universe before his actions are made known to the world. The taste of adventure that will lead him onto his journey for parallel worlds dances teasingly on his tongue. What a cock-tease.

Mankind might prosper from his peek, his sly glance at the very innards of the master of creation, but Alfred doesn't care about that. He has grown old. He has grown so _old. _He cares about what's on the other side. He cares of the different worlds his mistakes and his accomplishments might have fashioned without him. He cares because he _can._

"Is there something wrong with caring? _God._"

Sometimes, he'll admit, that he gets way too far into his studies. _Way _too far into them.

Ever since that day when Canada and him had ended up having that heart-to-heart (in where Canada ended up cuddling his dead plants and bemoaning his promises of being a better person and Alfred had realised that he could _so _make it into a parallel universe and that after throwing himself off of his brother's couch that he definitely could _not _fly), Alfred himself ended up later diving head-first himself in the proverbial pool of knowledge; drowning himself in the knowledge of alternate realities and living off of nothing but the god foods of burritos and cheezits. For weeks after, the American ends up tracking down everything he can about the alternate realities of the universe – books, essays, old science fair projects of the children who live near him, models, and what-else-not to discover whatever he can.

It not his fault of course. He _gets _into things when they pique his interest – sometimes too deep, sometime not deep enough. It's not his fault that he'll go off and disappear for days, sometimes weeks, having lost track of time and forgetting the understanding of time itself and pour over everything he can about something until he _knows_ and can know no more.

He's still a child. That need for curiosity must be quenched. He may be old, but the child within screams for more.

It is no surprise that the project had slowly become his life. As he fell deeper and deeper into the lure of different worlds, Alfred had slowly come to an understanding that no one else had ever really attempted something so _stupid _before. They have never tried. They fear the consequences.

Alfred does not.

There is an infinitive amount of knowledge to be learnt and Alfred wants to know it all. It stems from his love for knowledge, his love for both science and religion.

Alfred is old. He is _so old. _He is tired of being old. He yearns for the adventures of his younger days. He yearns for the bit of freedom that he can no longer call his own. He is old, so ancient and worn by time, that he can't help but feel pressured to make at least one more harrowing adventure into the very confines of the universe itself in search for the doors to other universes created at his own hand before something destroys them all.

And given the current situation – the impossible idea of death didn't seem so impossible after all.

Alfred soon collapses in his desk chair, his sudden action unsettling some of the items on his desk. He collects them in a neat little pile and leaves a note on the top of it for his brother. He knows his brother will be the first one to find his mess of a lab, not only because Matthew lives the closest to him seeing as how Matthew had spent the night last night when the other had realised that America had been losing touch with reality.

Last night had been an adventure alone with his brother, what with the stupid prank-calls, the destruction of his kitchen via the failed try at making upside-down cake, and the silly attempt to make England drunk as fuck and put him on call with Francis, but as soon as the Canadian had passed out after a Golden Girls marathon, Alfred had raced to his project for the last settling touches.

And of course, now it's all finished.

As he puts the finishing touches on his note for his brother and for whoever else will probably read the note, Alfred caps his pen and sets it on the desk before stepping up. He dons on his jacket, ancient and still looking _awesome_, and walks calmly towards his machine. As he steps in front of them, he feels time being pulled away from him and his youth slowly returning with each passing moment.

"This is it," he mutters more to himself than anything. "This is the final shot."

His last speech should be more dramatic and should definitely include a lot more tears, but Alfred really cannot find the courage or strength to cry. All of his energy is concentrated on keeping himself from shaking and keeping his mantra stuck firm in his Swiss-cheese hole brain.

As he steps before his portal, fashioned from his own design and his own ideas, he thinks of what could come from it all. He thinks of what the others will think, how they'll react whether in shock or in anger, and what they'll do with his disappearance. He wonders what they'll do if he never returns – will they follow after him, perfecting his mistakes and partition his country off to the highest bidders?

Then he realises that he doesn't care what they think and that he's the genius for thinking of this first and hops through the swirling vortex for his newest adventure, caring very little for what dangers might lay ahead.

**XXX**

As Canada slowly drags himself from his bed, he immediately is struck with the terrible feeling that something horrible is going to go down.

Alfred had been acting odd the night prior. Even though the nation always is always a bit off, last night had been something that he hadn't seen in _years._ Alfred had been talking to himself – little bits and pieces here and there of information that he only seemed to understand, mumbles of alternate plains and immortal stars, strange plans that sounded foreign to Matthew's ears, and when asked what the hell he had been raging on about Matthew had been met with total paranoia and anger – followed afterwards by Alfred suddenly gathering up all his notes, his dinner and his things and holing himself away in his locked room on the third floor. Even though he did return a few hours later to watch the Golden Gals with Matthew, the Canadian still could not shake the act from his mind. An act of obscure childishness Matthew hasn't seen performed since the height of the Space Race. Coupled with the strange glint in his eyes and the absurd giddiness, Alfred had been..._off _last night. Worryingly so.

So Canada knows something bad is going to go down. Now, his own problem is find out _why–_

Then, it happens. That bad premonition comes true only a few minutes after his wakening. A wave of pure energy suddenly rips through the air – Matthew's ears popping painfully as the wave descends downward and bellows out at the end of its path, leaving total destruction in its path as it spreads outward.

Taken by complete surprise, Canada falls backward and back onto his bed. It collapses suddenly beneath his sudden weight in its weakened state. America's cat just skirts out from the underside of the bed before the bed smacks against the ground. He staggers upwards, feeling disoriented for only a moment as he feels the tremors affecting the rest of the home fade away as they grow farther and farther.

A shock-wave. A _fucking shock-wave._ Alfred better not be the cause of that or he'll–

_Alfred._

The very thought of his brother strikes Matthew with a sudden fear. He stands up, ignoring the sudden aching pain in his skull as something hammers away at his skull, thinking it lives there. He moves out of the room without a second thought, ascending up the stairs and onto the third floor landing with the thought of his brother circulating on his mind.

Alfred had to have been the cause. It had to have been Alfred! Who else would have the ability to create such a force of energy that could have damaged the world surrounding them? Alfred has something to do with it and Canada can only hope that he's not dead.

The third floor hallway is full of smoke, all of it originating from the room stereotypically down the hallway. Smoke peeks out from under the door and floods the hallway with its reek. He hacks his way through the smog and to the door where the once forgotten room lies.

The Canadian's mind is barely processing what he is doing, but before he realises it the wood of Alfred's door is crumbling away the mere touch of Canada's hands. He ruthlessly kicks a hole into the door with the brute force that suddenly appears as his brain runs on overdrive and he squeezes into the smoke-laden private room of Alfred's; the dangers that may lay inside are ignored with the single thought running rampant: _Alfred must find Alfred where is Alfred Alfred where are you–_

He avoids one of the burning tables and the smoking rug with the blue flames (which he realises with a grimace later that rug had been a fucking _birthday _present and Alfred had split on it to make it burn _blue_) and attempts to find the fire extinguisher which is painfully hidden away in the several cabinets. He tries to listen for breathing as he rips through the cabinets (maybe accidentally flinging some of the doors off their hinges _whoops_) and searches for all sound of _anything _to indicate some mere, pathetic hope that Alfred could still be alive after that large, painful echo that had shaken the very foundation of the ancient home.

Something screeches as the flames reach it – screeching and painfully wailing as the flames slowly move over the form. It thrashes around wherever it is, making inhuman noises of pain and redundant screaming. As Canada bends down to reach the bottom cabinets, he attempts to block out the noise, hoping that it could not be Alfred.

He's never seen a nation burn before. He wouldn't know the sounds they make as the flames slowly begin to advance upon them and burn deep within their skin. He wouldn't know if they would scream like a man, their desperation heard on the edges of their smoke-covered voices or if they would scream with the voice of a thousands others all burning at the same time and screaming for a saviour who would never come.

Matthew wouldn't know. He doesn't want to know.

He pushes the thought of his burning brother to the back-burners; blocking out the noise of the dying creature out of his mind and he begins to frantically search for the fire extinguisher in the top sets of cabinets. As he does so, the heat of the flames prod at his back, reminding him always that they are still there. Flames crackle and something explodes, sending glass and fluids everywhere. The fire grows in reaction, reaching menacingly for the ceiling. It howls and begins its path towards Matthew.

Finally, he rips open the last cabinet and finds two fire extinguishers hidden within along with several past birthday presents and an ugly Christmas sweater that has been Alfred's probably since the beginning of time. He rips one of the extinguishers out and pulls the tab, figuring that if Alfred survived this he's not getting anything for his next birthday if all Matthew's presents turn out to be paper weights.

He sprays the fire down with the fire extinguisher and battles the fire for a few minutes, trying to fight its blue and red flames with the old extinguisher. It rages on for what seems forever, refusing to die until Matthew swipes out the old one for the newer one and smothers it to the ground with thick, white foam.

When the fire finally dies, disappearing beneath the thick white, Matthew collapses against a locked cabinet that's unmarked by fire. He rests his head in hands, sighing as he finally lets the situation sink in. He tries to collect his thoughts, spinning in endless circles as he reaches out for them endlessly in an attempt to gather them up.

Alfred.

Alfred might be dead. Might be burnt alive. Alfred might be gone.

And Matthew _knows _he's done something.

It's not a kidnapping. Not some dirty murder where Alfred's dead body has been cleverly buried in his backyard. No one would dare to step foot on Alfred's property or even dare to sneak their way inside considering the traps and alarms Alfred has set up for them. Paranoia is something Alfred never took particularly well.

Alfred had to have done something. Maybe that shock-wave could have been Alfred himself? Could he have somehow completely converted himself to sound waves and that had been him setting off?

No, that's a stupid idea. Not Alfred-stupid though.

Canada sighs and gets up, almost stumbling again as he gains his balance. Alfred had to have been doing something. _Something. _

He begins to look around the room, trying to find something that will tell him the reason of his brother's disappearance. He shifts through the ash on the floor, kicking and pushing it around with his socks that are _destroyed _in an attempt to find something that may be of use. He kicks the ash around and pushes over pieces of rubble. He finds his brother's work table, some of the papers still completely together and some of them completely burnt to dust, and looks under it for anything that may be of us.

The underside of the table is licked over with scorch marks and burnt indents, but Matthew can still read the inscription in the far left side. He smiles as he reads its inscription, but then gets on with work.

It doesn't take him long to discover what had screamed.

On the Mica counter-tops where countless things have been broken, beaten, reduced to microscopic dust, destroyed, and fucked sits a metal cage that has just begun to melt. Inside, Alfred's pet hamster Paul Blue-coat lays motionless. The flames left it completely unrecognisable.

At least it isn't Alfred.

He turns to Alfred's desk which seems to be completely untouched by the fire. The back of the chair is a bit burnt, but Canada quietly sits in it and hopes it doesn't collapse like his bed. He stares forward at the desk and looks at everything. A picture is overturned, a lamp has had its bulb exploded, the pens are scattered which way and that, and before him a pile of notes sits in disarray and slightly burnt at the edges.

What, _just what_, had Alfred been doing?

Matthew sifts through the papers, attempting to cipher Alfred's illegible words and whatnot and ignore the legal jargon that spews its nasty temper across the pages. He finds things stapled to pages – samples of different things, pictures of bloated up bacterium and small animals. It's full of different things and filled to the brim with _nothing _Matthew could have used.

And on it's front the words "_Sup' Matt. This shit is yours." _stares lovingly out at him.

Alfred has left him his journal, but what else? No note? No reason? No super, annoying video where Alfred cries himself goodbye and complains about how it's for the best?

"Fucking asshole." Matthew mutters. "Why am I always left with your stuff? You need to learn how to - "

Then out of the corner of his eye, he catches something. A shattered mirror is standing next to the desk, carved out of something he's never seen before and shattered to complete pieces even though little pieces of glass still remain attached. Smoke trails out from it, alerting him to be the source of the fire.

On the floor, in amidst the rubble and burnt ash, he discovers the almost incomprehensible written tongue of a scorched note that Matthew doesn't even realise is the start of their very existence beginning to split in half.

**XXX**

Alfred, Alfred has always loved the sciences. He has always loved how the solar system revolved entirely around the Sun – something so destructive and beautiful at the same time. He has always loved how the world is always changing, always evolving, always moving. He has loved how animals survive solely based on instincts alone.

Science gives him the answers religion cannot. Sure, it makes him feel bad sometimes that he's turning his back on the God he has given so much for. Sure, it makes him feel like he has betrayed that inner little half of him that is _America_.

However, like religion, Science has led him into too many holes that he can't get out of.

The holes in the universe is like one of those very many holes.

He is shot out into darkness, into some foreign hole in the universe he is lucky to have found. He spins through the lack of gravity, back-flipping through the nothing and slamming against the sides of the invisible walls that bar him from the rest of the universe.

His words of anger are lost by the sound of nothing, reverting him to swear in his head as he attempts to gain some sort of balance, flipping and spinning constantly in zero-gravity. He grows dizzy.

_Shit, fuckfuckfuck - _

Soon, the actions of his body seemed to have returned to him. As he begins to slow, his spins eventually begin to slow and stop at last and he lands on his back, laying almost lifelessly in the dead of space.

After a moment, he begins to float forward. Above him, Jupiter spins its outrageous rotation; its storm of poisonous gas raging endlessly on its surface. Below him, the Pillars of Creation – long dead but still breathtaking even in death – silently stretch on forever, reminding Alfred of what he can never be. A belt of Asteroids has been split in half, surrounding the dead Nebula in a graveyard of a broken planet. To his left, he watches fascinated as creatures begin to rise up slowly from the ocean and towards the distant shores. To his right, a star explodes at last from thousands of years of shining dutifully and being recognised by so little.

The place he floats on in has no concept of time, no concept of place or anything at all. In the minutes he has been floating, days could have past, years could have gone by, seas could have risen and volcanoes unleashed their havoc upon the world. Doomsday could have come and gone and Alfred heart could have beat once in the time.

Here, he is nothing. He is of no importance or high status. He is nothing.

He floats on, a mere body in the dead of space. His need to breathe is non-existent in the very confines of the universe.

Though, Alfred simply floats on. He floats on in the lack of gravity, his body totally weightless as he watches life be born and killed over and over again through the holes of the universe. He watches as their Doomsday descends upon them: the oceans rising and overtaking countries and great mountains collapsing under the pressure of the sky falling upon them as Atlas at last lets go of his aged burden. He watches as their creatures die, screaming and screaming silently as the end of the world falls upon them.

As Alfred floats on, he simply watches. No words, no expressions. Just. Watching. Even if he could speak in the deadness of space, there could be no words to be had.

And then, as he watches another star explode and fall from its heaven, he screams.

The sound is silent in that of dead space, but he screams nonetheless in the nothingness that surrounds him. Silence echoes in his ears.

The feeling of being torn apart is something unlike any other feeling in the world. A feeling he never expected to have ever felt, Alfred takes the situation with less grace. He twists in the nothingness, turning endlessly in the zero-gravity as he clawed away at his skin, feeling bugs under skin that could not exist.

The matter that makes him, down to the atoms, the quarks, and even the theorised God-matter of which men have murdered for the secrets to, have begun to disappear from him. They break-down, disappear forever. Finally done with him and the human life to return to the nothing whence they appeared.

Something he loves, something he cherishes had finally begun to rip him apart. The universe has finally betrayed him.

Suddenly, he loses control of himself. He gains speed in his path and as Alfred zips through the confine – flying in-between the holes of the Continuum, past the blurred edges of galaxies that fade in and out of existence with each dying breath, through the God-matter and Dark energy, and under the fade of dying stars whose lights still shine on even in the existence of nothing – Alfred realises that his body is slowly breaking down. His impossible body, his immortal body, has begun to break down.

His systems shut down – first his nerves, then his endocrines, slowly to his immune system and somehow onto his circulatory tract. The organs within him break down and away, tingling and paining with hurt as they return back to from how they came. The organs break away and the tissues reveal themselves – weak and dying and a mere nothing. They fall apart to the microscopic cells that multiply and multiply until their death rate overpowers even that. They break down as well, falling victim to the nothingness that surrounded him. The atoms survive, but not for long. They leave to the quarks, the tiny things that no one knows of. They spread to the unknown objects, the tiny bits of matter that have yet to be discovered, and finally spread to the very core of his existence. The God-matter collapses at the touch of the universe and begins to return to its beginning to start anew. Alfred can do nothing but scream.

He is dying; breaking down in a painful, beautiful way. His body is breaking down, betraying him, showing him that it is no one but the nothing that has the control of the body.

He loses control of his flight. He swerves out of balance, bouncing against the invisible barriers of the far-off galaxies with their dying nebulas and terrifyingly beautiful explosions of stars and comets. His path curves, and he slams hard against the top barrier and falls to the floor. He floats along the floor, spinning like a disk as his body slowly begins to break away from itself. He claws at the floor uselessly, trying to regain the balance and control that has been suddenly _ripped _from his existence.

And then, he _hears _it.

In the dead of space, where sound is merely a myth, he hears the howling and screaming of a terrifying monster whose existence is a mere theorised myth. When he slows and attempts to gain his flight, he sees it. At the end of his path, surrounded by constellations that have long been dead, the black hole swirls menacingly before him, but the centre is pure white and it bleeds into the black, creating a mass of opposites that growls in the nothingness. He's not even sure what it is.

The vortex begins to pull him back, straightening him and sucking him towards the swirling hole. Alfred attempts to hold onto the nothing, attempts to grip at the anything that wouldn't be made for thousands of years. The force sucks him back, growling and howling in the dead silence, reeling him back towards the glowing knot of unknown and desolate things.

Alfred knows not to fear the unknown. Fearing the unknown would bring the end, and he knew that. He knows that deep within the bones that are betraying that fearing the unknown would bring nothing but trouble.

But he can't help but feel afraid. He can't help but feel _human_.

As he breaks down particle by particle, his cells dying, his brain malfunctioning, and the bits and pieces of his body begin to break off in chunks, he can't help but realise that he's not invincible as he thought himself to be. As immortal as he is, as backed up by the thousands of people he is, he is nothing compared to that of the power of space.

Then the mass seems to feel his pain and what seems in an act of pity finally slips out its white tendrils of mass and matter and impels him backwards into the destructivee knot. Alfred falls into the whiteness, his hands reaching for the nothing that would do so as such, and screams silently into the darkness of space.

When he disappears at last, the mass ripples like water. It twists and swirls inward, spinning and turning until it closed up upon itself at last. The carved doors that suddenly appear at its side, fashioned from blood-stained deep wood and the bones of men who gave their lives in the name of Science, begin to move. The massive doors shut close over the nothing, locking shut without sound. As the nothing begins to form and settle, dying and living again and again, the number two carves itself deep into the dark wood of the universal doors of misery and mistake; their sizzle reverberating like the strum of a violin throughout the cosmos, warning of the destruction that is about to come.

**XXX**

"_Seas will rise and the mountains will stir  
>With the power of creation<br>We will end in a fiery rage."_

_Doomsday _by Globus


	3. Arrival

**Level II**

**Three:**_Arrival_

**XXX**

"_I live in a dream.  
>With open eyes, I breathe again.<em>"

_The Promise _by Globus

**XXX**

Canada eventually finds his brother's note within the rubble and ash of his notes. It's written sloppily, words crossed out here and there, and scribbles all over with a change in pen half-way through. The tell-tale misspellings of words only seal the deal that this is Alfred's good-bye.

H_ey guiz,_

_ To whoever gets this, I AM IN A FUCKING PARALLEL UNIVERSE. Or dead. Which ever comes first. If I'm not impalled in a tree somewhere, then I obvs. Made it through the portal which is probably totally OBLITERATED right now. Anyway, CAN'T BELIEVE none of yo' assholez thought of this before. I thought, why can't we go into the fabric of the universe itself? Why can't we visit parallel universes and alternate realities? _

_Anyway, I'm in this place because I decided fuck you, I'm awesome, lets build a portal into the center of the universe and find some parallel universes. Bitchez love parallel universes. Maybe we can use this invention for something totally new and awesome. _

_Or you know, enslave the parallel universe for all its shit and begin an intergalatic war over who is better than the other. You guys are SUCH assholes._

_With all the awesome, Alfred F. Jones._

_P.S. Also, someone tell Russia that he still owes me money. JUST BECAUSE I'M NOT EVEN ON EARTH ANY MORE DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU ARE FREE FROM YOUR DEBTS, WHITE BOY._

_P.S.S. I love you, Matthew :D_

The note slips from Canada's fingers, falling quietly to the ground and sinking into the ash at his feet. Canada stares wide-eyed at the shattered, smoking mirror at the far corner of the room. It smokes innocently and a piece of a glass falls from the mirror and onto the floor. On the scarred linoleum, it shines black; an eye opens up, red as blood and haunted, and stares up at Canada before flashing once and disappearing.

**XXX**

When Alfred comes to, he isn't even on solid ground yet. He's falling feet first through the air. He reacts with less grace, flailing his arms and legs and letting loose screams of terror before he even realises that the limbs he's been waving around aren't even existent. With a confused look, he looks at himself. His body is rebuilding itself – the particles slowing coming together at last as the level of elevation declines with his quick descent. He is falling through what seems to be early morning, the sun having yet to truly conquer the Queen of the Night. On a whim, though his glasses were long ago dissolved by space's dark clutches and he can barely see through the darkness at it is, he attempts to look at the ground down below him.

What lies thousands of feet below him leaves him gaping in the thin atmosphere.

To his utter surprise, the world below him is absolutely nothing like he imagined it to be. He isn't even sure if it is another world, but it is surely not the planet Earth. Hundreds of miles in the air still, he can still make out the total darkness and destruction of the entire landscape that spreads out its chaotic tendrils below him. The world below him is dark and battered; an effect of what can only be a constant death and destruction. From blackened buildings of abuse, fire darts out like a snake. Smoke seems to endlessly rise from this broken world and poisons the air it is above and if he looks hard enough, there are faces of the damned swirling in those tendrils of grey.

He stares out back into the sky, unable to keep staring down at the Hell below him. Instead, he focuses on his body which slowly, ever so slowly, recovers from his experience with the very innards of the Universe.

The feeling of being rebuilt is always something that never feels right. He's had his body blown to bits, his limbs shattered this way and which, and even been reduced to mere dust once at one bleak point in life, but no matter how much he tries he cannot get over the eerie feeling that comes with having himself rebuilt from the start. It never gets any better or any worse, but just stays in the same stagnant stage it always has when he's somehow lost himself an arm or a leg or two from war or an accursed infection. Sometimes, he thinks he's the only one that is disturbed by such a feeling. Then again, he seems to be the only one that ever realises that it's not supposed to happen in the first place and their nation blood keeps them from the troubles and terrors of others who meet terrible circumstances.

Within him, the very core begins to burn. The bits of god-matter whose secreted forms had once attempted to rebel for the comfort of space begin to turn and twist, growing and expanding quickly until they reach their destination. Slowly, the missing link begins to turn into the quarks and those into the atoms. At last, his cells begin to form from the clumping atoms that race to form together. His cells multiply and multiply, growing into thick tissue and bone not long after. Soon, his tissues begin to grow his organs which had been long dead and sort themselves back into their systems. When his lungs hit the oxygen once more, he gasps pitifully for air. It rushes into his throat, causing him to choke. His heart thumps sluggishly below his fist as thumps his chest to dislodge the air bubble.

His bones strengthen, growing thicker to protect his newly created systems of survival and need, his teeth slowly fall into place, and the flesh begins to extend and grow over his skeletal structure. The veins, the muscles, and arteries all fall into place. At last, his skin begins to slowly grow over his very innards, uncomfortably stretching to fit all his secrets within. His nose begins to grow out from his face and his ears suddenly uncurl and pop open like the petals of a flower. Wind rushes past them and they pop suddenly again and again and he grows closer and closer to the ground.

The feeling of being rebuilt is something he'll ever get used too.

Suddenly, the feeling of Texas begins to materialise on his nose – the cartridge has grown in crooked, a sign that he needs to really stop landing face-first in people's fists – and he fumbles to remove the eyeglasses from his face before they're lost forever to the world. He slips them into his inner-jacket pocket and zips the piece up for safe-keeping. It isn't until moments later that he feels a slight discomfort. With slight hesitance, he touches his face. The skin hasn't grown in yet. Slowly, it does, but his face seems to remain a fleshy red ball of muscle and tissue. His face always has to grow in last it see,s.

Alfred of cours likes to base it off of the fact that he's fucking_ gorgeous_ and beauty indeed does take a long time to manifest, but he can't help but think it's more than that.

Again, he looks down at the world below him. It's closer than before, a product of his eerie dissension through thousands of feet of empty atmosphere, and spreads across the landscape like a wild fire. Half the city is up in flames and the other half withering gloomily in the dying moonlight. At its destroyed border, he watches with indifference as what looks to be an army marches its way from the city – mere ants in the distance really, but still serving the same purpose nonetheless.

He had hoped to meet a world where war was but a myth, but he supposes that he can't have _everything–_

Then, with the thoughts of peace and a war to end all wars dance like madmen in his brain, he slams into something that had fallen in his pathway. He hits hard plastic, causing it crack beneath his weight. He backslides off the hood of the machine, bringing it down with him as he is sent nose-diving back through the clogged atmosphere where dragons of the damned breathe typhlotic plumes of annihilation and hopelessness. He's forced off of his course downwards and is sent spiralling madly towards the ground. His newly found heart rocks in his chest as he is hurled downwards and he feebly attempts to right himself once more in a sheer desperation of not wanting to hit the ground face-first. His thoughts race back to his time within a rip in the fabric of space. This time, the ground awaits him and the nothingness is a mere myth.

Gravity pits against him as he falls faster through the air. Barely does he make it onto his back as he flies through a purple-cloud and covered in disgusting, repugnant precipitation. Its very presence irritates him and the sudden sizzling on his skin can only suggest that its acidity levels could put the inner workings of a stomach to shame. He descends farther, eventually coming into the very town itself.

Burning buildings and abandoned complexes whiz by him. A disgusting smell of _death _invades his nostrils, plugging his nose and causing him to gag. He coughs out the terrible small, attempting to cover his mouth his arm but finding himself unable to move any part of his body. His heart shutters in his chest as the ground nears closer.

Before he realises it, the ground rushes up at him as if a grey monster with plans to consume its prey. Alfred slams against the ground and the asphalt gives away beneath him to his mass. The world around is forced out to the sides as the weight of gravity hurls him deeper into the ground. The oddly coloured grey earth is no match for him or the force of gravity.

Eventually, the world stops rumbling with his fall. The rocks and dust around him settles at last and he's left lying still in the centre of a massive hole full of a distorted grey and black soil. His breathing is shallow as his lungs barely can understand the thought of breathing let alone attempting the very process of taking in air to survive.

A few feet away, a rock falls from the edge of the crater and skitters towards him.

_This is just like one of my Japanese animes._

Above him, voices chatter in confusion and what seems anger. To own his dismay, he can't move his limbs. He can't feel anything. His closes his eyes and tries to focus on dislodging the poisoned earth from his trachea. He wants to call out to them, but he doesn't even know if they're even _human_. He grimaces as his face begins to suddenly regrow again, pushing out all the dirt and bacterium from its precious place and the skin starts to stretch uncomfortably over the expanse of muscles and tissue. He opens his mouth, processing the idea of _speaking_, but a harsh voice disrupts him:

"Fucking Mother of the Queen! What the _fuck _was that?" The sounds of footsteps are heard at the edge of Alfred's sudden grave. Another person joins the other not long after, their voice a gruff tune of anger that echoes across the wasteland that is sure to surround them.

"Don't go near it, dipshit! We're in the middle of war! It's a damned bomb!" A voice of reason.

"That didn't look like any bomb I've ever seen. The _walya _have their moves, brother, but I doubt _human-shaped _bombs are something they would rather not waste their time on as most of us do not care for the human-race."

His 'brother' snorts. "Well, that's the fattest fuckin' human I have ever done seen if they've created a hole that spans nearly an entire street."

Angrily, Alfred attempts to spit out a riling retort, but his voice catches and a small moan of pain slips out in its stead. Groaning, he rolls onto his side and spits a sudden glob of dust and mucus into the dry dirt. The men above him still.

Pebbles roll as one of the men step forward and slide down and into the crater. With a grunt, the other one follows afterwards and nearly looses their balance as they ascend into the man-made hole.

Before he knows it, another glob of spittle and dirt forces its way out of his mouth and his throat aches with a rawness of the likes he's never seen. When he opens his mouth to speak, a boot lands on the top of his back and rolls him face-first into the dribble.

"He's alive," one of them remarks uninterestingly.

"He should be liquidised at this point if Physics has anything to say for itself." The other sneers. Their voices are both gruff, rough tunes that are hard to dis-concern from another. Brothers indeed.

"Do you think he's human?"

"Hard to say. Looks well too fed to be any of ours."

"A rich one from the south do you think?"

"The Australian's would never come this far – not when they can be protected by their _glorious _ruler!"

Both of the man share a horrendous laugh that grates the American's ears. He struggles beneath the boot, glowering as he feels the spittle rub against his newly formed skin. The boot presses deeper into his back.

"Do you have something to say, _human_?"

"Get..._off._" He just barely manages such words – his lungs still a mess from the fall and the boot in his back doing nothing for his recovery.

"Should we let him talk?" The one above him asks sarcastically.

"Perhaps he'll have something interesting to say!"

Again, the two men share a horrendous laugh; chuckling at something that only seems funny to _them_. Reminds him of his brother and him...Though, they didn't laugh at people when they were down. That had never really been Matt's thing...The boot gives one last kick into his back before removing itself and its owner takes a slow step backwards. Slowly, Alfred rolls again onto his weak back and covers his face with the sleeve of his jacket before weakly sitting up. He sags forward, almost unable to keep himself balanced before he places both hands on the ground to steady himself. At last, he finally decides to look at them.

One look at them sends Alfred into a state of absolute shock. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide with surprise, his only coherent words a simple "_Dude."_

At first glance, they are crisply dressed men looking slightly worse for wear. Their uniforms – war uniforms nonetheless and decorated with the medals and awards of a plethora of things – are looking slightly worse for wear. They're not the same, each with different designs and insignias, but it is no clue that they are both on the same side of whatever war they're fighting. It is the man before him however that confuses him the most.

Standing upright before him, looking murderous and absolutely disgusted, is his brother. Matthew stares down his straight nose at him – but after a moment, Alfred sees that he doesn't look like _his _Matthew. Instead of that calm lilac, his eyes are a murky blue, and his hair a scraggly brown that's lazily pulled back in a way that reminds him of Francis. On his cheeks and chin, stubble has begun to show its true self. His skin is pockmarked and scarred. Parallel Matthew is a fucking _lumberjack._

Beside the opposite half of his brother is _his _alternate half. The man is slouched, and thin. There's an air of arrogance that clings to his tanned skin like a cloud of egoism. Like the other, his hair is brown but a darker chocolate shade and perched neatly on his forehead are a pair of aviator goggles. Eerily, Alfred at last makes eye contact with the other and realises the alternate half's eyes are a blood red. When they open their mouth, their smile is a sharp set of pointed teeth.

He wields a baseball bat with nails crazily driven through its wooden structure. They're rusted over and blood coats its exterior.

Though, as he looks them both other, he decides that is in definite need for a nickname of these two characters. He couldn't go around calling them parallel-Alfred and alternate-Matthew in his head. They would need nicknames, variations of familiar ones so he didn't forget.

Parallel-Alfred would have to be Albert. Parallel-Matthew would have to be Mathieu. A lot less annoying that way with different names and it didn't constantly remind him that he is in a _fucking parallel universe right now –_

He's knocked onto his back, the breath stolen from him as he hits his head against the ground. He gasps for breath and stares up at his attacker. The attack hits him home and he whispers the human name of his brother before he even comprehends it.

The very whisper causes his attacker to still completely for a moment before he angrily jams the gun into Alfred's cheek and leans over the bruised American. His murky eyes are wide with anger and a sheer paranoia. "_How do you know my name?"_

"You look like a–" Mathieu slams the gun back into his cheek, breaking a tooth inside his mouth. Helplessly, the shards fall into the back of throat and he gags. Alfred has no choice but to swallow.

"You know _nothing_." The alternate sneers. Above him, Albert looks over cautiously. Mathieu takes one last look at him – a look of total loathing and absolute _disgust – _before turning his head to beckon his brother. "What should we do with him, America?"

"He's a spy!" Albert sneers, his shoulders squared and his weight balanced on his Tetanus-infected ghetto baseball bat. "You know what must be done with spies."

"Again, I ask – What should we do then?" The other asks, jamming his gun deeper into Alfred's cheek. His jagged tooth scrapes against the inside of his mouth. "Kill him, leave him for the damned, or try to milk him for whatever information he might have?"

"Hah! Not our position, Canada. Remember – we're not allowed to have any fun. As it is, it would probably be in our better interest to bring it back to the base. After all...We never know who is watching..." There's a hint of fear lodged in the alternate's voice, something that sends Alfred on a rampage of questions. Matthew turns to look at something in the distance and Alfred goes to follow, but the gun in his cheek jars his attempt. It presses deeper; the nozzle surely leaving an imprint in the skin.

"You have a point," Matthew sighs. "I don't _want _to deal with all that stupidity though! If this calls for a meeting, we're going to be stuck in a room with him and those..._things _of his!"

"They're not that bad, _damn. _You act as if they're made from the souls of babies."

The look Mathieu sends his brother is condescending. Albert merely shrugs. "Don't ask me. I don't know what he puts in those things. I eat them because I just do."

"Yeah, sure. That's totally it." From the looks of it, Albert looks as if he didn't even know what food _was_.

"Hey, fuck you! You're the one who went off to live with that dickass after he lost you in the war. Fucker can't cook to save his life so don't blame me for your incapability to taste _real _food."

Mathieu rolls his eyes. "Go fuck yourself. Come on, think of something. Remember that we are needed back at base. We don't know where the army is marching towards."

"Probably towards the City of Oro. It's the next closest place."

"But will they allow them entry?"

Albert shrugs.

Again, Mathieu scowls at the sheer ignorance of his brother. "Fine, fine. _I'll _decide. We're taking him to Headquarters."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's our only choice. We could leave him here to rot, but then what would happen if the _walya_ came back through for survivors and found this fucker here? He could tell them we've been here and you _know_ that can't happen. We're better off bringing this asshole here with us."

"What will be do with him then when we get there? Bring him to the knees of the Empire and proclaim that he fell from the sky? He already thinks we're incompetent!"

"He thinks _I'm _incompetent_._ He _loves _you."

"'Love' is not a word, Canada. He...Enjoys my presence. Unlike you."

Mathieu merely raises one hand in defence. "Hey, I'm not the one with daddy issues."

"Why, you–!"

Sudden light flashes overhead. The sound of thunder crackles menacingly in the distance. At last, the two brothers share a final look. A solemn one that reminds him so deeply of him and his brother. Slowly, the gun is removed from his cheek, graciously allowing him the service of mouth-breathing once more. He can feel a chipped tooth, but that will be fixed within the hour. Parallel-Alfred hauls him to his feet with less grace, almost sending him falling flat onto his face with the sudden force. He steadies himself and glares at the other. His parallel half only smirks back.

Mathieu goes behind him and slaps a pair of cold handcuffs onto his wrist. They're pure steel, but they are something he could snap in half within a matter of seconds. Though the need to show his superiority to these other halves is strong, he thinks that it's probably better that keeps the disguise of being 'human' a little longer.

Though, he had to wonder – did they recognise him? He had sure recognised them. Maybe...Maybe his face had been messed up? He hasn't looked in a mirror since he's left his house! Is his face disfigured – a process of being broken down in the mere confines of space? Texas is still secure in his pocket, strangely still intact as any glass had yet to pierce his heart, but he can't _feel _Nantucket. It seems distant, not there, and seems to float in the very back of his mind.

When a second pair of cuffs are snapped on around his elbows at last, Mathieu walks out in front of him and turns back with a paralysing stare. "These cuffs are meant to hinder the power of any human or nation that is the unfortunate bitch to wear them. Breaking them will only hurt you."

"Where are we going?"

"We're taking you to the Headquarters." Albert answers, a new constant at his side. "You'll be someone of use, perhaps, that is if the Empire likes you enough."

"The Empire?"

"Rather, the head as meeting the whole empire would be a cumbersome matter and too much for a spy who fell from the sky." Matthew fills in. "You'll be meeting England. If you want to live, you have to get past him first. Too bad the occasion is rare when someone gets past the mighty British Empire."

**XXX**

"_This dream is a universe.  
>And every soul shines where the darkness turns into light."<em>

_The Promise _by Globus

**XXX**


	4. Help

**Level II**

**Four: **_Help_

**XXX**

"_Lost in a world of unending design,  
>We cannot find the path to travel on."<em>

_- Manuela _by Globus

**XXX**

This isn't the first time Matthew has had to fly across the Atlantic Ocean to 'save' his 'big brother' from the problems he gets himself into.

And if they came out of this alive, it wouldn't be the last either.

Down below the aeroplane, in the gaps between the greying clouds, he sees the dark waves roll and pitch on the great pond. The ocean has begun to swell and threatens to drown all in its unforgiving path.

A storm approaches. Danger drums on its pending edges. A simple misfortune in a sea of turmoil. Matthew can feel it in his bones: the deaths of tens of young men who fail prey to the majestic sea and her beauty. On his own edges, something deeper lurks. It calls out for what is no longer there. His fingers grip the armrests of his chair.

Had he been Alfred, they would have been crushed to dust.

He is not Alfred though. Sometimes the thought pains him – that he is nothing more than a shadow of his older brother and that he will never rise without the other's destruction. Sometimes he can't be happier. Being invisible is sometimes a great thing for a nation. Especially when it comes to the politics of the world around them.

But now...Alfred is in a parallel universe. Matthew is not.

Alfred is dumb. Matthew is not.

Alfred does not have to deal with the responsibilities and duties of a nation while he is off..._derping_ in the confines of space. Matthew does. He thinks to those papers on his desk – the very ones Alfred had left in his wake. The very ones Matthew could use to cripple his brother with a simple forged signature that is nothing more than an illegible scrawl of letters. Only, Canada couldn't do it. He owes too much to his brother.

And his brother can't get home right now. Matthew has to help him.

_Asshole_.

Matthew casts a glance at the leather and locked briefcase in the empty seat next to him. It's golden trims shine in the artificial light of the plane. He thinks to the secrets that lay within the confines of its leather making. Before boarding his quick flight, he had ripped apart his brother's laboratory to discover what he could of Alfred's plans. There hadn't been much – there probably hadn't been to begin with. His brother had really never been one for note-taking as it is – and what he could salvage had almost been destroyed by that preposterous fire.

From the notes he did have, he honestly couldn't make heads or tales of some of them. Perhaps it is his brother's incomprehensible writing which scrawls across the various pages like a child's adventure with crayons in a new home and it doesn't help that they all overlap in various places. The pages are burnt, torn, and almost fragile. What he did discover were the few formulas he deciphered from its pages and were enough evidence needed for him to choose the person he needed to help him with this dastardly mission.

At least, if everything went right of course. He would at least have someone to help him with unravelling the mystery left behind by his stupid brother.

If they would even _bother– _

A spoilt child, pampered by his nannies and smelling of roses, ferociously kicks the back of Canada's seat. The nation pitches forward, nearly bouncing his face off of the seat in front of him. The child kicks the back of his seat a few more times before the woman beside him calms his angry temper. Matthew wants to sneer back the child, knowing though how uncharacteristic it is of him to do such a thing, but finds himself distracted by the view outside his window.

As it is, between the holes in the clouds, the sea is black with rage. Danger approaches and the victims of her majesty will not be the only lives lost.

Danger is afoot.

**XXX**

Canada lands in the Scandinavian country of Denmark without trouble. They scan him in easily enough and he's lucky enough to be able to hail a taxi to his hotel. He's able to keep them waiting long enough for him to check-in and change into something more presentable and is even able to convince them to pull over at a small Convenience shop type deal near the tail-end of the city before heading out to the location he wants to be taken.

He enters its depths with his items set in mind. He pays for three cases of what seems to be Denmark's finest beer and two bottles of scotch that even he knows that will floor any man dumb enough to drink its entire contents. After fumbling his way through the language of Danish and its currency, he jumps back out into the waiting Cab who begins to take off the moment he lands in the vehicle, and takes the time to pack the empty suitcase he brought with him full of the alcohol.

At last, he takes a moment to cool down as they head out towards the outskirts of the city of Copenhagen. The sky above is partly clear; the little wisps of white doing little to blot out the magnificent blue. They hurtle past houses and small buildings, growing farther and farther from the metropolis. The taxi ride itself is peaceful. He at last settles into the seat, looking out to the Danish land around him. He isn't sure what to expect sometimes as it's not really a land he's ever found himself fancied in. Denmark to him had always been a land of alcohol, booze, and lost Vikings.

Its long history is beautiful. It has always been a gorgeous country, but Denmark itself has never really appealed to him.

Even its representation never really did either.

Eventually, the taxi-driver pulls into a small neighbourhood type deal with a few houses and that oozed normalcy. The house they pulled up to is a moderate type thing with two stories and a slanted roof. From between the many shaded windows, he can spot blue siding. Its grass remains uncut and there are two cars in the driveway. One is a rental. By its chosen make, he can only decipher that his target had visitors.

He once more fumbles his way through Danish currency and language, accidentally leaving a bigger tip than intended, and eventually drags his suitcase full of alcohol and the leather briefcase brimming full with secrets. For a moment, he hesitates with his hand at the door. He thinks of how poorly planned all of this is and what his sheer desperation to unlock the mysteries of these notes will lead him to.

Then, he realises that he's far too in it all to pull out now. He knocks heavily on the door and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

_And waits._

In a moment of frustration, he knocks again in anger. Eventually, the soft sound of the pattering of feet reaches his ears and someone – at last – opens the door. However, instead of the person he needed, Iceland stands in the doorway. Of course, it is no surprise that he looks bored and uninterested. Canada might have accidentally intruded in an all-so-secret, very-important 'Nordic only' meeting where everyone knows that they just get drunk and insult the rest of the world while trying to figure out how to get Scotland to join their festivities.

"Hello, Matthew."

"Bonjour, Iceland."

"Is there something you need?"

"Well..." Matthew starts, standing on the tips of his toes trying to see over the Nordic, "I need to have a word with Denmark."

"Don't we all." Iceland sighs.

"May I come in...?"

"Sure. It isn't my house. Make yourself at home I guess. Denmark's gone off into a spiel about the Clerks series again."

"Again? Doesn't he ever get tired of that film?"

"Apparently not. I've been forced to see it enough times that its prospect has been totally killed for me. As it is, do save us from his endless tirades of shitty movies."

"I will do my best, Iceland."

Canada follows the man into the modernized living room and watches him as he settles down into a seat next to Norway who only momentarily looks up at him and nods before going back to watching Denmark pace his antique Persian rug.

Normally, he isn't one for interrupting 'important' meetings, but the other four Nordics are looking ready to kill themselves or keel over from the sheer exhaustion the being in Denmark's presence causes them. He catches the eye of Sweden who already seems to understand that Canada is momentarily here to 'save' the day. Denmark of course is unaware of his presence and continues to pace his rug. The phrases "I don't appreciate your ruse ma'am." and "Return of the Jedi" can be heard from the quiet jargon he spews.

"Denmark, we need to talk."

Canada's voice just reaches over the Dane's blather and silences him. The Nordic turns in confusion, looking all up and around for the source of the interruption and soon just shrugs it off, returning to his indecisive pacing. The Nordics behind him peer in on Canada and judge him silently.

"Denmark!" He grabs at the other's sleeve and the other flies around, almost hitting Matthew in the face with his elbow. He stops and looks at where Canada is, before _really _looking.

"Oh, sup, Vinland! Almost didn't see you there!"

"It's Canada now, Denmark. Listen, I need to talk to you about America–"

"Whaaaaat? What did he do now? Why are you coming to me about him – shouldn't you be botherin' Pubic-Brows about him?"

"Trust me – England isn't the person to go to about this."

"What, did he set the kitchen on fire? I'm no help in that department either, Vinland. Besides – what's so important and private that you can't mention in front of my brødre?" He laughs, turning away from Canada. "I mean, come on, really. Shouldn't you be going to Arthur for–"

"What does Vinland want?" Norway asks, sitting calmly in the overstuffed leather arm chair to his right. "Has he finally realised that his true blood lies within us?"

"I don't know, Norge. Have you come to join us?"

"No, look, I need to talk to you–"

"Vinland! Not anyone can join the Nordics! Don't you know that? If you want to join us, you're going to have to pass the initiation test!"

Finland makes a noise of confusion in the background. "There was an initiation test?"

"Shh! Sverige! Shut your woman up!"

"_I am not his woman._"

"Excuse me, _wife._"

A pale hand seems to slowly extend towards the pocket of his jeans. It's movement is halted by Sweden's large hand who looks at Canada with a slow shake of the head.  
>"There's no initiation test."<p>

"_Sverige!" _Denmark accuses loudly. "What the _fuck_, man!"

"I am not going to let you harass Vinland into doing something that you won't really ever let him be accepted into."

"Why don't you let me have any fuuuuuuun."

And of course, Iceland just had to have his small input. "Because you're moronic."

"Oh fuck off, Ísland!"

"Only if you join me."

Denmark swivels towards Norge in horror. "Norge! Your brother just made a pass at me!"

"_My _brother? Who is the one here who claims that we are all bound together by blood and siblings of Mother Scandinavia?"

"It's not Thursday yet so it isn't me. Still! He made a pass at _me–_"

"_Denmark!" _

He turns in confusion.

"Oh Vinland–"

An eye twitches in irritation."It's fucking _Canada. _C-A-N-A-D-A. If you can actually process the use of the Roman alphabet without adding your stupid, unnecessary letters, maybe you would realise that my country name has nothing to do with your _dead _colony, _Vinland_. Vinland is _dead, _Denmark."

The room is an eerie silent. Denmark for a moment looks perplexed and with a strange look upon his face, he looks over to the rest of the Nordics who sit in a suspended silence.

"Did someone just talk?"

"_Danmark_," He calls again. Again, Denmark turns to look at him and recognises him immediately. A stupid grin lights up his face. "Oh hey, Vinland. I was wondering where you went–"

"America opened a inter-galatic portal and fell into a parallel universe while stoned."

Denmark's voice stops immediately, the train of thought left hanging.

"You're shitting me."

"Cross my heart."

"I'm sorry, but that was _gay. _But seriously? Why are you here? No way that happened."

"I need to talk to you!"

"Can't you see I'm busy, kid? Why don't you go play with your cowboys and Indians or whatever it is the fuck kids do these days. Go poison some teacher's coffee cup for all I care."

Sighing, Matthew unzips the top half of the suit case and forces Denmark to peek inside its depth. The nation rears back, grin smacked firmly on his face, as he turns to his fellow family. With a hearty laugh, he addresses them:  
>"All right, ladies. Please get up from your appropriate seats and get the <em>fuck <em>out of my house! Vinland and I have some business to get–"

"Are you getting down to business to defeat the huns?" Iceland remarks coolly.

"_Haha_. Hilarious, Ice. _No_. We've got some serious business to discuss and I almost _totally _forgot that we had a meeting scheduled! Seriously, this is some private shit. Now get the fuck out of my house. Especially, I'm looking at you _Sverige, _I'm watching you, boy!"

"I'm _older_ than you." The other nation remarks calmly.

"But I'm the badass in the family and this is _my _house. Now get out. We all know why you're here and that's for the best beer in Scandinavia. Bitches love my cheap beer. Now, _please_, get the fuck out."

Sweden only raises his hands in defence. Slowly, the four Nordics begin to leave the house – Finland the only one with enough courtesy to actually wave good-bye to Canada and Denmark – and Norway stays for a few moments to drop a few threatening words to the Dane. Soon, after a promise of the meeting being continued tomorrow evening, the Scandinavian and the Canadian are left to themselves.

Immediately, Denmark scurries over to the suitcase.

"You are like the _best _fuckin' colony _ever_. No one ever buys me alcohol!" Denmark goes to rip it open, but Canada pulls it away from him. The elder nation makes a noise in protest.

"You are a grown _man." _Canada points out, pulling the suitcase closer towards him. "As it is, I _do _need to talk to you. I wasn't kidding about that part. We really do need to talk."

"About _whaaaaaaaaat_."

"My brother."

"I'm not his fuckin' baby-sitter!"

"Yeah, neither am I, but I'm stuck doing this anyway. _Look_, I don't want to being doing this any more than you do, but Alfred's gone."

"That's _not _my problem, Vinland. Was Pubic-Brows drunk or sumthin' or other? Couldn't you go to him?" The nation's ice blue eyes trail towards the case of free alcohol. "Why must you torture me with the prospect of free alcohol! Did Norge put you up to this shit? Come on man, just hand it over and let me drink away my sorrows!"

"You will get it _after _you agree to help me."

Denmark scowls. "Nasty little shit. Aren't you supposed to the nice one?"

"I am the nice one. I could have drank it all."

"You wouldn't dare. You'd be dead hungover."

"You seem to forget I was raised by France first and Russia is my neighbour. If I couldn't hold my alcohol, then I probably wouldn't continue to have as much land as I do now."

Denmark groans, throwing his face into his hands. For a man who is probably older than time, his mannerisms are more akin to a child's than anything. "All right, you've got me by the fuckin' _balls. _What is it that you want?"

"Alfred's missing."

"I get that. I still don't know _why _that concerns me. I like Al and all – and the world would be a sadder place if I didn't have a reason to celebrate his birthday in July – but it really isn't my problem that the kid's off and gotten himself lost again. They'll find him eventually. It's like not a hundred years ago when nations could go missing and no one could find them for years. Man, _those _had been the days–"

"He's not on Earth any more. He's in a parallel universe."

The nation stops mid-rant. He turns on Canada with a raised eye-brow. "You're kidding, right?"

Canada doesn't answer. His silence alone is a confirmation.

The Nordic looks to Canada and then to the suitcase full of alcohol for a moment before turning to stare at the floor. Canada looks as well, only seeing the colourful Persian rug that is below their feet. Denmark then raises a hand, places his wrist on his hip, and opens his mouth to speak but stops himself before any words are able to come out.

"I didn't believe it either." Canada offers as if it'll help any. It doesn't.

"That doesn't make any _sense_." Denmark says in a voice that leaks sheer exasperation. "You sure Al's not dead somewhere? You sure he's not just kidnapped and being held for ransom? Canada, seriously, think what you're saying. People used to get hanged and quartered for the bullshit you're spewing!"

"No offense, but...Do you really think I'd come _here _if I didn't have total belief in this? Seriously, Denmark. You're a nice guy and all, but you're not the person that I'd generally hang out with. I need your help to find my asshole of a brother because you're the only person who probably knows the most about this stuff and I was _hoping_ this alcohol could tide you over into assisting me... But if your beliefs of parallel universes have been that corroded by religious fancy and the loss of a million brain cells over the last fifty years, then I'll take my expensive beer elsewhere."

He goes to grab the handle of the suitcase, full with the intent of taking it and walking out of here with his head held high, but a large hand on his wrist stops him. Matthew looks up into Denmark's confused and conflicted face.

"Fine, fine! You're such a bitch though. Really, though? Did...Did your brother _really _make it into a parallel universe?"

"That's what I'm led to believe."

"Why? What else says otherwise? Do you think he got in or not?"

"Look, I have _no i_dea how this stuff works! All I know, Al was acting _really _weird last night–"

Denmark casts him a look. "It's _America."_

"No, by weird I mean _weird. _Cold-War_ weird._ I know his paranoia gets the best of him sometimes, but this wasn't the extreme paranoia that Russia was going to eat his heart that's generally associated with that era. No, it was the Space-Race excitement allover again! I haven't seen him act like he did last night since he discovered how to get to the moon without killing his crew and himself in the process. Al had been planning something. Something _big _and _stupid_."

"It's _America. _What does he plan that isn't big and stupid?"

"You do have a point there, but as it is – I don't know what he was planning. He refused to talk to me last night after I pointed out his irregularity. Normally the hoser tells me everything, but he was more sealed up than the sea in the winter in whatever he was doing."

"Tell me everything." Denmark demands. "You must have seen _something_ if you're so dead-set in the disappearance of your brother. What happened to him?"

"I don't know the whole story. All I know is that I heard a boom–"

"A blast? A boom? What kind? Sonic? Seismic? Impact? Heat? Shock?"

"...Sonic. Definitely Sonic. It completely wiped out all sound. My bed collapsed from the sudden pressure it caused. When I went upstairs to check where it came from, Alfred's lab was completely doused in fire. When I went inside, his portal to wherever he went was completely shattered."

Denmark gives a sudden show of strength and smacks his fist into the wall in a fit of rage. Surprisingly, the drywall doesn't crack. "How though? _How_? I've been for years searching for a way into another universe! I've searched for all the cracks, all the tiny pinholes in the space time continuum that an indestructible humanoid could fit through! And your brother goes off and _boops_! his way into another parallel universe! I've been at this for _decades_! And he does it a matter of minutes! Tell me _everything_, Matt. Everything you know. If your brother successfully made it through whatever portal he created, there's a chance he's still alive and possibly derping his way through the boundaries of a world different from ours."

"Only if you help me!"

"Is that all you want? The confirmation that I'm on-board this sinking ship? Fine, but we are not spitting in our palms and high-fiving. I nearly died last time that happened."

"That's disgusting anyway, but you have a deal. On topic of what we were talking about before...Wouldn't he die? There's no _air _in space!"

"We've never been inside a hole, Matt. We haven't been inside the nothingness. From all we know – which isn't a lot – all your brother could need to survive is his dark matter and nothing else. You don't need oxygen to survive in space anyway. The sun and its brethren has been burning for a million years and doesn't even use oxygen. The universe is full a trillion secrets. But your brother... your brother is an immortal creation – impossible to kill without the slaughter of millions and is made from the blood of earth itself which is just another extension of the universe. If anything, he would be broken down piece by piece in the very confines of the universe and swallowed whole by any pitying blackhole that he happens to float by."

"A _blackhole_?"

"Or a wormhole. Maybe a vortex if he's in the right place at the right time. He's not the King of the chessboard in the nothing. In fact, he's just another result of a billion years of creation at work."

"You know, with every words that comes out of your mouth, you are simultaneously shitting on religion and the theory that my brother is still alive."

"What can I say?" Denmark shrugs. "The universe is something not to joke around about."

With a loud groan, Canada drops the handle of the suitcase and sets the briefcase on top of it before falling face-first into the open palms of his hands. "This is all _my_ fault."

"Oh come on, Canada. It can't be all bad! You've got me, the King of all badassery! It isn't like you're totally stupid on this subject–"

"It's been _years."_

"Well, when you put it like that...We might need a bit of help."

**XXX**

Deep within the nothingness, something stirs. It won't be created for days, slowly drawing itself together from the floating particles of God Matter that surround it. It feeds from it with a foreign feeling of confusion. This God matter is different – the Matter of being whose very life source is the product of creation at its finest. Slowly, so slowly, does this nothing grow into something.

Above it, skin floats. It's a man's face – twisted in terror as his body had slowly begun to break down and betray him and had been left behind as a trophy when he had finally disappeared at last. It floats on and on and on in the nothing.

Like the nothing, it floats on. However, it is everything but nothing. From the face, the nothing does grow – feeding the something with its strange matter. The man's agonised face grows more strangled and terrified as the moments pass on. There is no concept of time in the nothing. Time does not pass here. It seems like forever that the nothing grows from this torn away face.

But too soon does the face disappear. The nothing still grows, but it is hungry for more.

And in the confines with no boundaries, the nothing grows and grows until it can grow no more.

**XXX**

"_Weakened by flight but empowered by will to live and breathe a newer day."_

_Manuela _by Globus

* * *

><p>Sweden's accent is a no go for me.<p> 


	5. Humanity

**Level II**

**Five:** _Humanity_

**XXX**

_"_From dust to dust, we live, we die before we've grown we're out of time."__

__Elegy ___by Globus_

**XXX**

As soon as Mathieu stops talking, both brothers seem to suddenly begin to move together in synchronization. They move in behind Alfred and grab both of his forearms, pitching him upwards to his legs unwillingly. They drag him forward but don't get far before being halted by the steep incline that his entrance had caused. The grip on his arms gets tighter

"Probably should have handcuffed him up there," Albert snorts before shooting an accusing look at his brother. "But then again, I'm not the one who gets hand-sy with the cuffs."

"Mm. I forgot. You're a fan of the nine-tails. How is it? Does he still keep it polished?"

Albert sneers in reply. Mathieu gives a barking laugh to match his brother's thorny jeer.

Man, those two could not be any bigger assholes than they already are now. He thought he and his brother were bad, but those two...Those two just kick him and Mattie straight out of the Winner's Circle and into the cold waters of Loserville in terms of assholery.

_Christ_, they could give Ivan a run for his damn money if the ice-dick wasn't so busy getting flimflam with his brother whenever the world decided to take a dump on them. Seriously, though, thinking about it – if he comes home and Russia is passed out in his bathtub _again_, the diplomatic immunity America extends to Canada as a sign of brotherly _awesome _and the closeness of their governments will be revoked entirely and a boatload of _pure American steel _will be unleashed on that canuk's face–

"Well, I guess we have no choice." Mathieu calmly says.

"Guess we don't."

On either side of him, the twins suddenly brace themselves; the grips on Alfred's upper-arms tightening almost to the point of cutting of his circulation. The train of thought twisting endlessly in his over-thought brain is brought to a sudden screeching halt as he suddenly becomes aware of the situation he's in.

The absolute sneers on their faces do nothing to ease the boy's uneasiness.

"Wait, what's going on –"

Their grips grow stronger as they kick one of their legs out and using the sudden action to grab the back of his leg. The brothers swing him between their conjoined bodies, back and forth like a brand-new toy that they've decided to suddenly share, and unknowingly subject him to a terrible fate of not knowing what is to come. In their childish activity of carelessly swinging about the American, Albert and Mathieu seem to hum with some strange contentedness: a foreign satisfaction that curls over Alfred like a wet blanket that smothers all in its drowning path. When he opens his mouth to complain, air rushes in and he chokes –

And then, Albert screeches right in his ear, almost shattering his eardrum:

"_Up, up, and away!"_

Overcome with sheer terror, he almost screams with fear as they throw him forwards and upwards into the clogged air of this darkened world with his flight path heading straight towards the rounded edge of his what he had thought to be the beginning of his grave. He's tossed hard enough that he makes it over the edge of the pit, but it wasn't enough as the brink hits him _good _in the stomach. When his chest lands on the cracked concrete that escaped his fiery landing, the echoing sound of shattering glass rumbles in his ear. Texas has shattered and has begun to dig its remains into the very flesh of his skin. Alfred flails his legs in anger at the terrible situation, feeling ready to scream at such blatant stupidity and disrespect. When he feels himself begin to fall, he digs his chin into the ground in order to maintain some sort of balance at the injustice of it all.

Alfred isn't left there long though as the twins soon begun to back up deeper into the pit before taking a running start at the slanted edge where he lays dangling. They run in the hill effortlessly (even _Albert_ manages without a problem) and show up beside him. He sees a boot and a hand land out of the corner of his eyes before dusty hands reeking of sweat and death clamp down greedily on the upper portion of his arms.

"_Fuckin' A. _You're a heavy asshole! What, do you inhale lead for breakfast?" Albert's voice seems to screech heavily in his shattered ear once more. Alfred only snorts in reply and spits out the dust that had accumulated in his mouth.

"Not like you're any lighter." Mathieu mutters.

"Look at you! Your dress size is 'bitch, loose some weight!'"

"The ground shakes when you fall!"

"You wear the panties of old women!"

"At least I don't pretend I'm five kilograms less than I really am."

"That is a _lie _and you know _it_."

"Just because I know it's a lie still means I can't tell everyone else otherwise."

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Only if you come with."

"Excuse me, _ladies_," Alfred interrupts with a casual tone, "but don't we have to be getting somewhere?"

Both men seem to still, momentarily considering such an idea. Then, after coming to a simple conclusion that they are both total fat-asses unworthy of food, the brothers at last begin to drag Alfred away from his former grave-site. The thought that these two seem to have found it entirely normal that he literally broke an entire roadway with his crash-landing is unsettling to him and keeps him on edge.

Quite honestly, he doesn't have a story to make up on the dot if they decide to ask him what it is just exactly. That is something he will definitely need to work on if he is going to get out of this stupid situation alive.

At last, he takes a quick look around at his surroundings in an attempt to familiarise himself and is to the core shocked at what he sees.

The buildings around Alfred are either partially intact or utterly destroyed; the nearest entirely complete building looms in the distance – a single beacon of hope in an endless sea of destruction.

There are no people to be found. There are no souls crying out. Not a single, whimpering plea for help.

Even the wind is dead.

The two brothers begin to walk faster, dragging Alfred tighter in-between their two bodies. Albert And Mathieu seem unperturbed at what is laid out before them, as if death is a sight that they have grown far too accustomed to in its gruesome visage.

Certainly, America is no stranger to the concept of destruction or its lonesome brother Death, but even he could never get used to such casualty that the brothers portray at the scene that stretches out around them. Alfred has seen cities crumble, Empires fall to their bloody knees, men and women and children alike die at the hailing of bullets that descend upon their dying, little world in an attempt to protect what is left of all they have – their _country _of course, their village is _gone, _burned to ashes by crusading bandits of the West – and all of it be for the sake of war that has blackened and soiled the hearts of those who were never pure in the first place.

Suddenly, Alfred is jerked to the side and led down a road that is almost entirely intact. The name is ironic – _'hope_'. He has to wonder where they are, where they're going. Mathieu might have mentioned it, but Alfred wants to hear it again; wants to hear where they'll bury his body six feet under.

Haven't they put it together? Doesn't he _look _familiar? Albert and him have nearly the same facial structure! The same chin and jaw, the same crooked nose, and the thinning hair line of which he refuses to acknowledge the existence of! He crash-landed into their world, leaving a massive crater that took out an entire street-way and yet they're totally complacent with such facts.

The American tries to catch the eye of at least one of his captors, pursing his lips in concentration before finally speaking. "Where are we going?" He asks at last and nearly stumbles over completely when Albert tugs painfully on his arm. Hopefully, the bruises fade before they realise that they were ever there in the first place.

"We need to get to the capitol, _duh_." His parallel half answers back with a nasty sneer.

"Are we _walking_?"

"Fuck no! The capitol is _miles _from here. We're _flying_."

"You have air-planes?" The idea that these people are capable of flight is slightly scary. He wouldn't trust these two with a plastic car let alone an actual flying machine.

"They're useful."

"_Wonderful_."

He might just not die in the confines of their capitol. He would go down, _down down down_, in a blazing inferno and gasoline and flames that would be at the cause of what could only be a screaming metal death-trap capable of flying thousands of feet in the air.

Suddenly, Albert and Mathieu take a sudden turn down a deserted alleyway to their left that had snuck up upon them without notice. They had reached some point where the buildings were still left almost entirely intact, but still no soul was to be found in its boundaries. Though, the boy is squished beneath the two brothers as they make their way down the tight and narrow alleyway. They make it out to the end, immediately separating as soon as the space allows it. They soon stop at a large, winged vehicle sitting plain out in the middle of the concrete clearing.

Alfred looks at the flying-machine, utterly unimpressed with such an object that is horribly undermined compared to his own models that he has taken flight in over and over again throughout the last century. It's a helicopter more than anything – with rotating blades that are sure to be loud as fuck and a tail-end bent upwards with a proud logo of some disclaim painted upon its gloss.

There are places for injured soldiers and men alike at its sides and he damn hopes that the two parallel-halves have the decency to at least let him ride in the damn vehicle.

Before he realises it, his mind has begun to travel back in its time to earlier days and Alfred wonders if Canada still wants that private jet...

Albert swings a casual arm over the boy's shoulder, bringing him closer to the parallel-half than Alfred has _ever _wanted to be. "You ever been in a helicopter, spy?" His voice is a tune of utter pride and total boasting for his mechanical machine. "This is the – _there is a fucking dent in the hood._"

"_What_?" Mathieu demands. "How can be there a dent in the damn _hood_? This is the newest model!"

"Look there!" Albert lets go of Alfred, stalking forward and jabbing his finger at the smashed front of the machine. "Something smashed into the wind-shield too!"

It is nothing more than a small cargo ship – designed probably to carry a pilot and his co-pilot and a few boxes of cargo with stowaways stashed in-between. Its wind-shield has been forcibly cracked in half and its hood is dented. It seems familiar...

Alfred's eyes widen as he realises that the dent is particularly... _human_-shaped. It seems silly to think of such a thing and that the dent could have been caused by what he thinks it to be...However, the more he thinks of it, the more likely it seems. He _had _hit something on the way down from the vortex and he had been damn sure that something of akin to a plastic-glass surface had been apart of what he hit...

But, the thing he hit would have had to be completely shattered. America had fallen several _thousand _feet before hitting the object that supposedly sits before him right now. He should have smashed right through it! The concept of pressure should be the same here as it is back home. The worlds are still the same – they are on Earth. He is not breathing hydrogen. He is breathing oxygen. The object he hit should be _destroyed._

Here it is though – slightly dented, but entirely functional. The wind-shield is cracked in-half, the metal where it meets the bottom dented and oddly shaped.

This plane should be _shattered_. Though, perhaps...He's not giving the creators of this plane too much credit. It managed to bear the brunt of his own weight and a thousand more added onto it due to the power of the world pressing down upon him. Perhaps this world isn't as backwards as he thought.

It is possible that he had fallen into it and the plane had been able to absorb the shock, taking on the force as it dropped several feet into the air. When he rolled off, it could have easily resumed its flight...

The overwhelming urge to snort at the idea of him breaking the two brothers' plane before even having the sheer misfortune to meet them is impossible to bear. It doesn't help that the livid looks that have taken a hold of their faces are only fuelling his need to laugh at himself for being such a fat-ass to have cracked their wind-shield and dent steel.

Even more so, with the thoughts in his mind to snort at such an idea, the chances that these two _ever_ finding out the real reason why their plane is dented are slim as the two seem unable to work out the easiest of puzzles.

And he honestly doubts that they would believe that a human could survive crashing into a plane and then falling to the ground without severe injury. Even if they didn't believe he's human, Alfred still had a feeling that they wouldn't believe that a humanoid creature could have crashed into that without some sort of mark to show for it.

"That fucker ruined my gift!" Albert's voice echoes off of the dead buildings around, his dulcet tones forever screeching on his message. For a moment, he suddenly stills and his face freezes in a nasty sneer. The moment ends and the sneer dies off into a gritting of teeth, his fists clenching together at his sides.

"Where is that _pathetic _human?"

America freezes. Shit, there had been a pilot. A pilot who might have possibly seen who he was. A pilot who might at least vouch for a particularly large-sized humanoid creature slamming down into their precious machine.

A pilot who will die for Alfred's mistake.

_Fuck._

Mathieu strokes his beard in thought. "England is not going to be happy with this."

"Ya _think_? Of all the fucking things to_ happen__ –_ "

Footsteps break the man's endless string of insults. A man with watery eyes and clothed in a civil service uniform of some sort has appeared out from the other side of the helicopter. He's flesh and bone and utterly human.

"You broke my plane!" Albert accuses as soon as those red eyes catch a hold of the pilot. The parallel-half stalks up to the man and gets in his face, peering down into frightened eyes with his own violent red. Shaking hands that are scarred and filthy are the only shield left between the nation and the man from crossing boundaries.

"Sir, it w-was an... an accident!"

"An _accident_? What, did you crash into a _tree_? If you hit a tree, only one thing is going to get hurt and that's you, dipshit! What did you do to my helicopter!"

"I...I...!" At this terrifying moment, the pilot's eyes catch Alfred's. His mouth opens in a widening, terrifying 'O' and he gapes at the boy.

"Him– He–!"

Albert sneers, reaching back with a hand to grab something. "Too late," he sneers, "Your time is up."

"But, I–"

"Oh well. This is coming out of your pay too."

The gun is pulled out before America can even realise it. It slams against the forehead of the man, knocking him back a bit at its force. Albert pulls the trigger without much care, not even listening to the garbled mumbles for pleas that the human is making in his final moments.

Flesh flies everywhere at the result. Blood splatters across them all, staining their clothing and skin with its red poison. Albert turns from the fallen creature and wipes off the grey-matter and blood that has pooled on his skin. The pilot is dead, his form no longer really that of human.

Albert grins from beneath his bloody mask. Alfred shivers at such a sight.

He curses his own lack of arms and knows that there must be a good amount spread across his own face. Alfred has had blood blown across his face before, but the feeling of it has never been something he revels in.

And certainly he's never been the one to have bathed in it either.

"_Well,_" Mathieu says after a moment of wiping the matter off of his own face. "America killed the pilot. It seems that I'm flying now."

"He deserved it!" The creature complains, throwing his hands up in the air at his brother, brimming with agitation and energy to defend himself to the very end.

"You could have waited until _after _we got to the capitol to kill him!" Mathieu runs a hand down his face, getting off the rest of the blood that had splattered across his face._ "_Then again, you can't fly a _fucking _plane, can you? God-damn, you're so useless."

"At least I've got a plane."

"At least I can _fly._ Who gets a plane when they can't even _fly_."

Albert grins a terrible grin and wipes the blood off of his face with the sleeve of his jacket before pulling the keys out of the dead pilot's pocket and throwing them at his brother before going over to slam open the air-plane door with a bit too much force. Mathieu shrugs and is careful to step over the body and avoid the pooling blood.

Alfred is slower to follow after them, trailing after them hesitantly and completely circling around the cadaver instead of crossing over it; complementing if he really had just saw such brutal force be taken out of an innocent creature because of a mistake that hadn't even been their fault.

He doesn't want to admit it, but it happened. It had happened and it had been all his fault.

As a person whose lifeline is tethered together by the lives of his people, a person who officially _cannot _die without millions expiring beforehand – the concept of death comes easily enough, but the reality is what hits hard.

The pilot had died because of him. Had died because of Alfred's poor landing and inability to see his surroundings. Had died because of his yearn to visit other universes.

Fuck.

People dying at his expense has never really done anything for him. In fact, it sucks.

A lot.

After completely avoiding the body all together, he at last heads towards the helicopter and almost struggles to get inside its interior. He balances himself against the side of the door, cursing his lack of arms and slowly begins to walk inside.

There are two seats – no surprise there – and a whole back full of cargo. Mathieu peers over at him from his pilot seat before looking at cargo-hold.

"Seems like you'll have to sit back there."

"Don't get crushed!"

"Thanks," he murmurs, rolling his eyes. Alfred shuffles into the back and settles himself between one large box labelled in Russian and another two small ones that are entirely nameless.

He rests his head upon his knees, listening silently to Mathieu's movement up front and revelling in the silence the brother has allowed for this moment.

There is a slight crick in Mathieu's wrist whenever he moves it – perhaps from over use or some fracture from a long time ago. It's a distraction; a repeated sound in a sea of quiet.

It feels like he's been here forever. His watch is dead, its round face cracked and his Mickey-Mouse dirtied by the dirt that has sunk in, but something tells him that it's only been thirty minutes since his arrival.

In his world? He doesn't know. The watch stopped at fifteen after ten in the morning.

It could have been any amount of time. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, millenniums. Nations could have been broken and built anew like a clockwork as far as he knows.

They take off, lifting up into the air with no effort. The sound of the whirring blades isn't as loud as he expected it to be, but still effortlessly serves as a distraction from his thoughts. Albert seems to be in an endless staring contest with the cracked wind-shield, but Mathieu doesn't even seem to notice its existence.

So far, he has entirely destroyed half of a block and killed an innocent pilot. What's next? Is he to somehow insult their glorious King and become some sort of industrious sex slave to please the diplomats?

He hates these people. He absolutely hates these two.

"That wasn't cool, ya' know."

Alfred's voice rises from the darkness he has been forced to sit quietly within – his sudden accusation the only proof that he is still alive, still breathing. He has huddled himself in a corner with his head down upon his knees; seeing spots of colour against a loathsome black from the applied pressure that has come as a result of forcing his eyes upon the hardness of his kneecaps.

Light breeches the through the curtain of his hair and the cracks left open by his face. He can feel Albert's grin when the other turns to look behind him and into the space of the cargo hold. It is his parallel half that sneers back and there is little humanity to be seen in the grotesque face. When America looks, he appears to be even more malformed than before. There are dots of smeared red across the plane that is the yellow-parchment colour of his skin, almost sickly and colourless. His eyes glow alight with an odd sight that even sets Alfred a back a few paces. His eyes are the colour of blood.

"Hmm? Do you have a _problem _with it?" Albert speaks like a long lost ghost who has drifted endlessly through the pages of faceless history books and cracking manuscripts. Albert speaks like Alfred had once a many moons ago when the world had not been so complicated – when he had not been staring down the face of his opposite.

"Yes. Yes, I _do _have a problem with it."

A searing laughter escapes that mouth full of sharp teeth and flesh. It echoes in the tiny cabin, smothering them with its hideous tune. America is unable to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine at such an atrocity birthed forward.

When he at last stops with his mediocre melody, whether by need of breath or that not-so-discreet kick to the skin by Mathieu, he only grins back at Alfred with that strange look of his: that grotesque, in humane look that seems to be shared whenever the need to kill arises.

The thought crosses his mind – Could Albert be planning his death this very moment? Could he be deciding what incredibly, inhumane thing that could be done to make him die so slowly and in agony?

"Don't _ya_' know?" He mocking impersonates Alfred's accent. "Humans are _nothin' _here. They serve the state, spy. Which is _us_."

Torment crashes over the awestruck American in a moment of total distraught. Silence descends once more upon them as if it is a foul creature seeking the weak and pitied to feast its teeth upon. For some reason, the sudden news that he should have expected – should have _realised –_ hits him harder than expected. Disappointment washes over him as the reality of it settles in at last with its pungent claws digging deep into his heart.

Alfred realises with the heavy heart that this is sudden use of fascism is entirely _his _fault. How the clock does turn round and round as he chases his dreams, but he can never really escape the fact of all those lost at its result. His decades of years at work to rid the world of the loathing monster known as Fascism haven't seemed to reach this world at all. All those years passing with the attempt to erase and carve out a new life affected by his own ignorance has utterly doomed another because of him.

Instead of screaming, yelling their selfishness, and groaning at the whole bitterness of it all: Alfred can only gape at them. It is the inter-wars all over again.

"Fascism? You guys fucking use _fascism_? _Christ. _Are you serious?"

Mathieu takes a moment to look back at Alfred. "This is common knowledge. What world are you from if even _this _passes you by?"

"He's just ignorant." Albert offers as an explanation. It does nothing for any of them.

The other just shrugs.

"I am _not _ignorant. I just happen to see the very obvious _flaw _in your logic. Seriously, I understand that humans aren't as great as nations, but _dude. _You cannot comprehend how fucked a nation is without them! Nations are built from the very grounds of their people – not the other-way around. Give respect where it is due."

"Problem?" Mathieu doesn't even take his eyes off of the sky when he addresses Alfred. "What does our governmental system matter to you?"

"We're in power. That's all that matters." Albert confirms.

"But–!"

"God-damn, no _butts. _Not even if its that fucker Russia."

"He has a great ass." Mathieu admits. Alfred can only gape in horror.

"Indeed."

"No, stop. _Stop. Stop right there. _We are not going to take about that commie's ass! It is not great! It is pudge!"

"That's some of the greatest pudge I've ever seen then–"

Alfred drops his head onto his knees at the laughing words of his parallel-half. The thought silently comes to him, but he honestly thinks that these two are definitely in need of names that are no where near his own or his brother's.

Though, as he delves deeper into what has just occurred, he North American can only close his eyes at their cruelty. How these creatures have lived for the last few years is something that he does not understand. How can they exist without the very basic structure of their own people? A nation is born from a group of people that share something in common. A need for government. A need for unitement. A need for a leader, a ruler, a King or Queen. Anything they need can be achieved through the use of a personification. America would be nothing without the help of his people. There would not be an America if there are no Americans.

"Still, I have to wonder..." The Canadian murmurs, more to himself than anything. Albert perks his ears. He leans in towards his brother. The parallel-half is absolutely in love with his own curiosity.

Mathieu rears back to look at Alfred with a grim frown.  
>"What world are you from if you don't know about our governmental system?"<p>

"He's got a point." Albert takes a moment to stroke his chin, seemingly to be deep in thought at such an idea. "Dude, we're notorious. Where the fuck you from if you don't know our governmental state? Bumbfuck, Nowhere?"

"Oh, you're the one to talk about ignorance." His brother comments without a thought. Albert whips his head around. "Don't give me that look. You're the fucker who let the fuckass in the first place with his shitty censorship. You set yourself up with that one. Not my fault you can't properly read a book."

Alfred blinks and shuffles up to the side of Mathieu's seat. "You're fucking kidding! No way!"

"Unfortunately, I am not. My brother can barely read as it is." With a sly gleam in his eyes, the foreign creature turns in his seat and cups his hands to the American's ears, beginning to whisper to the boy as if they're two school children with a naughty secret to tell.

"_The Empire reads his papers for him and preps him for meetings beforehand_."

Immediately, before Alfred can even formulate a proper answer to the whispering that doesn't consist of laughter, Albert screeches at the indignation put forth by his sibling. He shoves Alfred back into the cargo-hold and unbuckles his seat, moving over into Mathieu's territory.

"Stop telling those filthy, _fuckin'_ lies! You fucking _know _that they're not true!"

"Just because they're not true doesn't mean I can't spread them around, you snivelling stain. Now, sit your god-damnass before you get us all killed!"

"Fuck you! You shouldn't even be telling the pansy-ass spy!"

"_Spy-this. Spy-_that. Fuck, he's probably not even that _important. _It's all _kill, kill, kill _with your one-track mind. What a boring fucktwunt you are."

"Go suck a fuck, shitnugget."

"Tell me, how does one _suck _a _fuck–_"

The pissing fight continues on and on – each sibling spitting out a myriad of colourful but utterly tasteless swearwords at each other that serves only to prove how entirely immature they are. It isn't until Albert shoves Mathieu and the plane tips to one side and nearly tip-sizes at the action. Alfred slips onto his back, sliding across the flooring and painfully slamming against the wall. The small box to his right falls off and straight onto his stomach. He gasps, the box sinking deeper, and he struggles to regain momentary control of his own body.

The helicopter soon straightens out in its path, leaving them all in a momentary quiet. Alfred rises up, taking the box with him. It falls onto his lap and a sharp corner digs into his thigh.

He takes a deep breath of air and closes his eyes.

"Oops." Albert offers after a moment of awkward quiet.

"_Fucker_, you almost killed us!"

"Well, you shouldn't have been lying!"

Mathieu rolls his eyes and focuses on his driving. He soon though peers back behind his seat with a raised eyebrow, "You alive back there?"

"No worse than usual," Alfred wheezes in response. One of his ribs is possibly cracked, but he can already feel the healing process kick in.

"Good, we don't want you dying before when we're this close."

Alfred whips his head around. They've already _arrived_? He attempts to get onto his knees, slowly pushing the box off of his lap with the action. The boy scooches back up to the front of the plane before standing up to look out the window.

Before him, the Capitol of the mighty British Empire stretches out in all its glory. Around it, there is absolutely nothing.

There is nothing outside the gates of the city. There is nothing but smoking ash and dead trees. Destruction spreads on as far as the eye can see, taking all in its grasp and killing all those who dare to trespass its grounds.

"Scorched Earth policy," he murmurs. Barbaric. Monstrous. _"Why_?"

"It is the only way to save the Capitol." Mathieu calmly answers.

"And what happens if the Capitol falls?"

"Then we all die." Albert murmurs.

Mathieu takes them straight over the mile-high marble gates surrounding the _massive _city, not even listening to his brother's screech that they need to go through protocol like '_normal people_'.

"What the fuck! You're going to send the army after us!"

"Yeah, right. This is their helicopter, dipshit."

"You still shouldn't be doing that."

"England can't stop me."

"Just because he doesn't recognise you doesn't mean he won't stop you."

"Nah, he just doesn't care about me. It's you he cares about. If you remember, you didn't know about me for a long time."

"Best times of my years!" Albert sneers.

The two countries share a laugh before fading off into silence. Albert's hand moves up to the bar up above his window, clinging to it with a mere two fingers. Mathieu flies the machine deeper into the city, heading towards what could only be a homage fit for a ruler. The palace itself that drags out before them is magnificent creation of beautiful build. The sprawling towers reach out for the grey sky, the gaping windows only appear to show what they wish, and the climbing ivory only seems to encompass all it pleases.

They soon begin to descend from the sky. The helicopter slowly begins to head down into the property of the palace, Albert yelling all the while at Mathieu's choices, and soon land on top of some shrubbery. When they land, the parallel half shoots his brother a piercing glare before getting up and slamming the helicopter door open and jumping out.

"At least I didn't land on the dog again." Mathieu chuckles quietly before exiting himself. Alfred stares after him for a moment before taking his own leave of the machine. The jump to the ground is a bit higher than it first had been, but he at least makes it to the ground without killing himself. Once he hits the ground though, the brothers both immediately clamp onto his upper arms.

"Can't have 'accidents'," Albert clarifies.

"Nor can we have you running."

"Oh yeah. I'm totally going to take off in the middle of a strange place. Great idea."

"Glad you agree. Now come on!" It is Albert that is the first to start walking, dragging them all long in his brisk near-jog towards the ornate palace doors. He doesn't even bother knocking as the doors immediately open up for him the moment he walks near. They enter instead the building, but Alfred has no time to look around the room they've entered as the three of them are quickly crossing the length of the room before he realises it. Another set of doors is before them before he realises it.

The massive doors give way to Albert's foot and they slam open, bouncing off against the walls they're connected to. He throws his bat to his right, caring only if it hits the ground but not caring if it hit something, and some poor sop only grabs it on the very tip of his toes. Alfred can see the blood on his hands as the slave hurries away with the object clutched to his chest. Mathieu merely rolls his eyes at such an action, but doesn't seem to offer any help for the bleeding creature and merely follows after his brother with Alfred in painful tow.

It is a massive throne room that Alfred has been forcefully dragged into. There are no windows in this massive room. Floating candles of all different states with their remnants dripping far past their bottom edges are located all around the room and instead serve as its light-source. The floors are mismatched, consisting of sorts of dark, glossy rocks that suck the heat from his feet through the soles of his feet. The light-coloured walls are misleading – giving way to a misguiding warmth as they slowly traverse across the massive length of the room and make their ways towards what could nothing else but a throne with a lonesome figure sitting upon in. On a sly glance towards the ceiling, where the marble plating that is the walls meet the top, the boy notices that scrawling across its stony lengths are frozen remembrances of Greek deities of long ago in various acts that even he could not recognise.

However, there is one that almost immediately catches his eye. The most of them are overshadowed by the massive engraving of what could only be the story of Tantalus; forever etched in agony as he reaches for what he'll never get. Greece's voice haunts at the back of his mind, a quiet echo in the amidst the stony silence.

_He stole what was not his and revealed the secrets to his world..._

For a minute, he had stopped walking completely to gape open-mouthed at the art above him, but before he can ponder any-more of its illusive meaning, the two brothers push him forward again. The boy is dragged down an expansive red carpet of which oozes an aura of utter evil that sends chills down to the very core of his bones.

The carpet reeks. It smells of murder and agony; its vermilion fabrics twisting and writhing with the pain of a thousand deaths. Upon closer inspection, the carpet seems to vary in all shades of red. It is as blood has been the life source of this rug, turning what may have been a beautiful centrepiece into an utter monstrosity that has been entirely fashioned from blood.

He keeps expecting to step upon a wet spot that has yet to have dried and feel the liquid seep into the holey soles of his converse and stain his filthy socks a dirty red. The two brothers don't even seem to realise the carpet's existence – keeping their eyes focused on what is before him and block out all else that is not their objective.

_He cut up and fed his only son to the Gods..._

Alfred is slammed onto his knees. With a sneering grin, the incorrigible other half begins to press his disgusting shoe where the crest of his back meets the hairline on the nape of his neck; the heel digs deeper into the grooves of his spine as Albert attempts to make the American bow before the King he cannot see.

It's no surprise that he fights back against such actions.

Different universes or not, Alfred – no, _America _refuses to bow to anyone that is not him. It has been many a decade since that rainy night centuries ago where the final truth had revealed itself in a downpour of blood and rain. Backed by an entire army fashioned from patriotic farm boys and proud men, America had watched the British Empire fall to its knees as a result of what some say his own refusal to be the perfect child of a defunct world.

No, he would _not _bow to this mysterious King who is at fault for this destructive world. He has more pride than that. He is _more _than _that. _He utterly refuses to bow on a carpet that has been _made _at the result of a million deaths at the hands of mad-men! The actions might some day become the reason for an untimely death, but America went on his knees for _no one._

Alfred only fights back against the pressure being forced onto his back. His shoulders bow out, his neck _cricks _in the utmost unhealthy manner, and the weight of too many years of war and discomfort seems to finally rear its ugly head at the worst moment. Though, against the odds, he fights back against the applying pressure that is pressing down uncomfortably against his back, and eventually finds himself able to bring one knee up from the ground.

"Stay down!" Albert sneers, slamming his foot down on his neck and almost bringing the boy back to the floor with the force. Alfred growls and only pushes back harder against the creature that dares to be considered his parallel half. Albert is trying, is trying so _hard, _to show off his superiority to their kingly leader. It's no surprise that this one took the responsibility of forcing him to his knees. He is used to bringing the enemy to their knees and presenting their broken bodies to his leader.

Not this time.

America smiles beneath the curtain of his hair and allows himself to be forced back onto his knees. Albert smirks something fierce, digging the heel of his boot deeper into the gaps between the vertebrae and leans down to nastily whisper in the American's ear.

"See, this isn't so _bad _now is it? Everyone will just go smoothly if you act like you're _supposed _to–"

Alfred pulls away from the parallel-half, collapsing onto his left side and only gritting his teeth when his bruised shoulder and even more bruised face take the brunt of such actions. He swings back his leg, slamming it straight into the knee-cap of the man who shares his face. The nation screams at his knee pushing in on itself and stumbles back, reaching blindly for the baseball that isn't there and the shoulder of his brother.

Mathieu steps away from his flailing sibling, uncaring and apathetic for his injuries and allowing the other fall to fall upon the red carpet in writhing torment. For a minute, Alfred can feel a distorted, disentangled strand of pain deep within that resonates far within his knee. It's numb and he isn't even sure if it's real, but it is there. That small tingle of pain is there.

As he sits up, the thought frightens him for a moment. That whatever pain Albert feels is felt by Alfred – that any attack or attempt at saving would only serve to harm Alfred in response.

And for a single, tiny moment, in-between the screaming and the laughter of foreign men and that of forced slaves, America is utterly and totally _dumbfounded_.

When Albert hits the floor, cradling his shattered knee-cap and screaming obscenities that would make the Southern Italian of his own world blush pink to the roots of his hair, Alfred begins to struggle to his own legs in return. His shoulders ache something fierce and there's a burning in the side of his face that had been the side to have made acquaintances with the floor. He makes it to his legs nonetheless, pushing on through such trivial things and fondly ignoring that strange numbness that seems to resonate deep within his own thankfully in-tact kneecap.

Soft laughter that is unlike the bearish chuckles of pitying slaves and the snorts of a bored Canadian soon rings in his ears. A melodic tune that gathers all in its grasp...It is what encourages him to remember that he is not alone in his struggles and thoughts and he is in someone's presence.

The presence of someone who could end his life right here and now. With a snap of his fingers, Alfred could be carried away to become another spot in the carpet below his feet or left to rot away in their prisons forever. The thought of appearing so _weak _in another's presence burns away at both his conscious, but that foot in his spine had done more damage than he would have thought possible.

The very thought that he is appearing so weak in the view of what could be the parallel-England only bothers him worse. It itches away at his skin like a cumbersome bug, whispering and whispering slanderous little lies of: "_Show him the truth! Show him the real America!"_

When the chuckles at last stop, the whole room seems to descend into a pocket of total and smothering silence. Mathieu straightens slightly behind him – as if the man is trying but can't care enough to actually do anything. Even Albert's swearing seems to settle down to the point of a momentary silence.

He feels a thousand eyes on his back, judging him for his momentary weakness for suddenly feeling his age. There can only be one logical solution of such a thing occurring...

They are waiting for him.

They are waiting for him to make his move.

So, America lifts his head to their pondering silence – the pride of centuries of ignoring European royalty and all those who have opposed him a perfect mask across his face, his neck held high enough to be considered mocking, low enough to miss the line of submission – and solemnly dares to meet the iridescent eyes of the man they call their leader with the stubbornness of a boy who has yet to learn his lesson.

However, unlike that accursed day so many years ago where the dead men sang and the sky had been alight with their victory, the eyes of his England do not stare back.

**XXX**

_"___God has let you down.___"_

__Elegy ___by Globus_

**XXX**


	6. Kingly

**Level II**

**Six:** _Kingly_

**XXX**

"_I tell you that clockwork's a powerful thing; there's a terrible strength in those tightly wound springs_..."

_The Watchmaker's Apprentice _by The Clockwork Quartet

**XXX**

_In a faraway land, just a stone's throw away across a pond that all men deem to cross, in a land twisted by the tides of war, left defenceless to the blows of an endless enemy who rain down upon their happiness with the weapons of only the beginning – there is a child. On the pavement, on his knees on a ground so worn, one hand braced against the hardened cement with the other clutching a piece of chalk. Cherub features with unruly hair; the face of an innocent that yet understands. _

_ The child scribbles away at the pavement, a blurry movement of clutched fingers and messy hands. A world of pictures lights up beneath him. There is a white sun. A white sky. A white tree and a white house. The family drawn is all stick-figures with inaccurate proportions and curly hair. The smiling face of the young one, the smallest of the six pictures, stares up blindly into a darkening sky – ignorant to the sirens of a dying world – only to be soon covered by the hand of the cherub boy as he moves his attention else where. _

_ Unlike before, another world lights up before the boy. The chalk is stained with blood, it's tip a bloody red. He scribbles out a picture, hunched over his work like a child who fears that he will be cheated on by a naughtly classmate. His back arches and the chalk snaps within his hand. It rolls over, leaving but a trail of dust across the white world of a child's dream. The cherub leans back._

_ A dead bird. A dead tree, bent over and looking rather thick in the scrawl of chalk and childhood imagination. A dead person. Its eyes are crossed out with red X's. Underneath the dead man is but a heart. A human heart. All red and wide, curving lines to indicate movement of some kind. White lines streak out from its centre which is nothing more than a withered piece of smudged black in between all the red. Drawn down by gravity, the white lines bleed into an even darker creation of the cherub's drawing. It's a deep red. A deep, dark maroon that hums with a strange power. Inter-connected the two are as if they cannot survive without one another like the inter-workings of a machine. _

_ The cherub peers up. The sound of a clock resonates through out the air. The reddened creation twists and morphs on the ground, changing its shape before the very mortal's eyes. It twists and twists like a blob of goo before the child's eyes. It changes and turns before settling at the very last into that of a pocket watch. The white lines still connect and the watch is still pulled open, its clock-face slightly blurred but still readable._

Twelve to midnight, _the child reads. The watch only purrs. The cherub reaches out for the pocket-watch, keep by the heart of all men, wanting to touch and see if the red would stain his hands just as the chalk had. It ticks and tocks below his fingertips and he can feel it hum below him._

_ Then, the sirens boom. They shake the child from its dreams, the pictures still painted below him but the red is gone and replaced by that boring white. The white heart with its white centre with its white strings connecting to the white pocket-watch still remain beneath his frozen form. _

_ "Come away, child! Come away with me!" The voice of a mother, the voice of a father, a brother and sister, kitten and dog. They scream at the child, hands of a million clutching at the boy's possessed form. They rip him away from the pavement, pulling the boy to their enclosed bodies as they dash off away from the accursed scene. _

_ The child wails and wails. His piece of whitened chalk, fashioned from talc and the other minerals of the world, falls from his fingers. They snap against the withered stone of the ground, shattering into halves and rolling away. _

_ The bombs only fall, whistling through the air and bringing London to its knees. A child screams, followed by the wails of a dying family who breathed its last, its dog scattering for the trees, and the white world of childhood imagination is overrun by a waterfall of innocent blood rolling across the withered side-walk._

**XXX**

When Alfred wakes up, he bolts up from his bed to only be pulled down by the nuisance of something on his wrist. He almost breaks it in frustration before taking notice that it was _steel _hand-cuffs keeping him attached to the pole of the iron-wrought bed. An iron-wrought bed that was not his.

Alfred hadn't had an iron-wrought bed in years. He moved his to the attic along with the water-bed after he found out he could get his hands on a Queen-size Race car bed. Ancient is cool and all, but why have ancient when you can pretend to be a badass going 200 mph down the NASCAR track line in your pjyamas?

It also had cupholders. This bed did not.

Ergo, this is not his house and he is handcuffed to some stranger's bed. Why the hell was he handcuffed to someone's bed anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be having a manly sleepover with his brother anyway? Where the hell was he anyway –

Alfred stops in his thoughts.

"No. _No. _It had to be a dream. _It had to be._"

He had had a dream that night – a dream of blood and blacks and the blitz of London, but it's hazy and he knows for some strange reason that it will come back to him eventually just as a faithful dog does with its owner. It will come to him eventually, but he knows that last night he did not dream of a parallel world for he knows that he is _in _the parallel world.

The thoughts of the previous day flood into his brain, sending it on a highwire adventure of new thoughts and pictures to process. The American brothers, the poor state of humans, the cruel brutality of these 'second-player' nations who were but jokes to the real things, and the war between the Northern Hemisphere and the Southern Hemisphere – the war he knew absolutely nothing about but knew enough that the South is getting their asses kicked and seems to be the only ones who know that the North is seriously fucked in the head.

Not only that, but there's also the mad King of the North as well. The parallel-England whom is the craziest of them all, who literally seems to have a carpet fashioned from blood, is probably someone Alfred doesn't want to get on the badside of. He already knows that he's in trouble for making a fool of the King's toy Albert and that's probably the whole reason he's already in this damned room. As much as he doesn't want to admit it though, the parallel-England is a tad bit frightening. The original Arthur could be a badass too, but the parallel-England knocks his England right out into Space. He can't even think of the mad England to even be called Arthur. Oliver seemed more fitting. Then again, he didn't even seem fitting of a human name.

Nothing but a figure from the past, haunted with forms of ticking trinkets and hand-crafted beauty, pretended to be the nation of England that had stood before him, in that moment of fear where he had allowed his pride to take the reigns of this mad campaign of life. His skin is pockmarked and toiled by years of misuse and violent war; a crooked nose is the centre of his face, has eyes that are the same poisonous green as his original, acidic and ugly in every way. His eyebrows are hidden beneath the shield of his hair, blending almost invisible into that ferocious colour, and though near identical in style to the original, that can only be described as black as the very tresses of sin.

Standing from their seat, their bones creak and that smile proclaimed _madness, _and he is nothing more than a thin, gangly rod of a man that – though still being no taller than Alfred – is still a far shade from his original. His dress is odd, wearing clothes that have long lived past their date – a black frock-coat lined with the golden ends of pocket-watches, a tailored waistcoat the colour of pure white fastened together at the dip of his throat made of cotton with buttons of pearl and black breeches that only accented the thin sticks that were his legs.

And as the man approached closer, Alfred could hear it. Even now, as he sits dazed in this bed with his wrist aching with the constant rubbing against the inner of his wrist, he can still remember it foggily: The slightest ticking of an untimely clock, the turning of ancient gears that beats to its own rhythm, an irregularity in the thousands of watches that seem to tick all at once. In the hundreds of clocks making their noise, out of the thousands of turning cogs of which have long lived their day in his own world, there is one that beats out of rhythm with the rest.

The noise comes from the only watch a face has not been hidden away. It the one directly above his heart; its clock-front scarred and scratched with the years, so well used that the glass over the ticking hands has begun to go smooth and its numbers are unseen.

However, when the man stared down the bridge of his nose, judging the boy with a scrutinizing gaze, Alfred had realised that the clock shown above his heart is not the one making such a strange noise. It is not even moving at all. He narrowed his eyes at Alfred's stare and opened his mouth to speak.

"Send him to the dungeons. He is of no use to me now."

Alfred remembers nothing after that – nothing more than the cackling of Albert, whom he has a feeling that if he ever gets the chance, he _will _punch the asshole in the face. Albert has a face, though identical to his own, that is calling for a right hook to the jaw.

In childish frustration, he gives an ample kick of his legs. They thump against the mattress in his anger, only furthering the wrapped confusion of tangled sheets around his legs. The red comforter had fallen to the ground earlier in the day, but he doesn't bother to pick it up. He's hot enough as it is. Instead, after he calms the twitch of his legs and his own boiling anger, he sets to plucking his legs free of the thousand-thread cotton sheets that were far too white in his opinion after his day of running around in the muck and getting brain goo splattered all across his face.

Then, he finds a nasty surprise.

His dick is still in place, not cut of in the immature spite of that asshole Albert, but there's the fact of the matter that he can _see _it – just _chillin' _there. He isn't wearing underwear. He isn't wearing pants, socks, a shirt, his jacket or even his glasses. He's naked. He's in a parallel universe and he's lacking clothing.

"Oh god, it's like Manchester all over again!" Except, this time he isn't getting manhandled by the locals. He still hasn't figured out whose damn great idea it was to put one of England's secretaries in a birthday cake, but when he finds out, he will make sure they _feel _the humiliation of being forcibly undressed by English hookers at three o'clock in the morning the day before the Inauguration of one of their presidents.

He's naked and he's handcuffed to an iron-wrought headboard of an ancient bed. This is _not _good.

After a moment of thought, he leans over the side of the bed – his right arm pulling painfully as he does so – to grab the blood-red comforter. He throws it over his legs haphazardly, praying that his body for once decides to obey him and that he can make it through this situation alive.

Just as he throws the blanket over and pats it down over the cotton sheets, there's a sharp rap on the door and it swings open. In walks, not a confused maid of human origin or even a handsome butler with simple features, but the King of this nasty world instead. Oliver sweeps into the room with a slam of the door and the graceful walk of a inhuman being. He no longer wears the same clothing of yesterday, instead going for dress pants and a puffy shirt, but the ticking of a million clocks can still be heard – the same irregularity still exists and nothing has changed. The King doesn't even seem to realise.

Then again, Alfred supposes, the King probably doesn't realise much other than the fact that he has the world by the balls.

"So, you're the human who has been causing trouble for my boys." It's not even a question. It's a statement. The disgust cannot be filtered out from the parallel nation's voice and it fills America with a rage unknown.

"I have a name."

"So?"

"So, ergo, I shouldn't be called '_human_'. That's generic as generic can go. How the fuck are you supposed to keep people apart if they're labelled '_human_'?"

Oliver only sneers down the bridge of his nose. "All humans look alike. What makes you any different? Why shouldn't I have you hung and quartered, right here and right now?"

Shit. This is political shit. He doesn't have his jacket or his glasses or even a goddamn hamburger to at least keep him stable in the political showdown that's about to take place. Oliver's throwing a deal on the table, the blood-stained and brain-splattered one of course, and Alfred needs to make his choice now or go home in a box labelled 'Biggest Loser Ever'.

He purses his lips and throws his cards on the table.  
>"Because you find me too interesting. Your boys must have already told you the story – about how they found me in the middle of a massive crater without any memory and brought me here for investigation. If you didn't have some sort of interest in me, I wouldn't be in this room and would be either in the dungeon or dead. I'm not either, as you see, and so either you have a fetish for tying naked boys up to iron beds or you find me interesting."<p>

There's a moment of silence that descends upon them like a carnivorous animal. It gobbles up the blank space, tearing away the walls of the awkward that were creeping up. However, soon a small, cruel smiles lights up across Oliver's face and Alfred knows he's fucked. He's seen that smile before, in waves of fire spreading across forests and villages of old, and he knows that he's stepped into the Den of the Lion to be offered up at the hands of whatever held the reigns.

"I almost took you for an idiot. You have a face like such – the face of a moron. However, your face seems very similar. Do I know you from somewhere?" Fuck, even in this world, he apparently looks like an idiot! Does he have a massive blinking overhead sign, screaming _'Yo look at this jackass. He's such an idiot! Make fun of his white ass!' _

"I have never been here in my entire life."

"The Capitol? How strange? Then again...You reekof magic. Magic that is not my own. Magic of someone who cares, perhaps a father, a brother, or even a lover? Where do you hail from, strange child? Magic is not allowed in my land for the exception of few and my own."

Alfred is _not _a child. He is a grown man with a love for toys – there is a _difference._ "Not here. Now, where are my clothes? Being naked in front of people isn't exactly a glorious past time of mine."

Oliver sneers. He clenches his fist and stares down at Alfred, engaging in a serious battle of staring. After a moment, he breaks the stare and trails his eyes down Alfred's outline body beneath the comforter. He almost looks as if he wants to reach out and peel the cover away to see if the boy really is naked.

"You were filthy. I couldn't allow you in come into the Queen's Suite, all full of muck and dirt such as you were. Quite honestly, you should be glad that I sent your clothes out to be washed, all but that jacket of yours. A relic that thing is – I couldn't dare have it washed."

Anger surges up through Alfred once more. "_Queen's _suite? I, but – wait, _did_ you go through it?"

"Do you take me a _savage_?" Oliver accuses. "I did not _touch _your jacket. Neither did any of my men. We had it scanned, and it showed there was nothing of use in there but a pair of broken glasses which I've sent to be repaired. Do not take me to be so _rude_."

He almost feels bad for a moment – that he offended the King, but then he comes to his senses. Oliver is staring him down again, imploring upon him with those acidic green eyes. Alfred realises that magic is being used and it is being used against him. Sometimes, he really hates magic.

"Mmm," he settles with after a moment. "Do ya know when I can get them back?"

"You will only your jacket back. The others will be burnt and you will be supplied with new ones."

"_What_?" He can dress himself, thank-you very much.

"I am only being a kind host and do you want me to look bad in front of the others? While you are in my land, you will dress to my rules – not the fashions of whatever place you came from and graced with your presence."

_Blah, blah, blah. _Should he bend over here or now?

Oliver narrows his eyes and for a minute, Alfred fears that Oliver heard his inner thoughts, but the King only shakes his head and comes even closer, sitting down on the edge of the bed and precariously close to Alfred's thigh. He non-discreetly attempts to schooch away, but the parallel nation's gaze pins him in place.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here by total accident."

"Accident? One does not come into my territory by _accident._

"And one does not simply walk into Mordor, but it already seems like I'm here. Look, I don't know why I'm here as it is. I don't even know what's going _on_."

"Then what do you know? What do you know of my empire? My kingdom?" Alfred is faced with another crossroad – another terrible situation where he's totally fucked in every-which way. He doesn't know a single damn thing about this world other than the fact that it's nothing like his own and the way things are run here make the politics of his own home world look like child's play. A complete, nation-run tyranny over the human populace, engaged in a total war between the northern world and the southern?That's all there seems to be of this world.

"Well?"

"Endless bloodshed." Alfred murmurs. He doesn't regret it.

"And your land is not? Do you live in the land of imagination, where the unicorns frolic and the faeries guard the doors to the mortal realm? Tell me, child, is there truly a world where bloodshed does not occur? Violence does not occur always between humans, you know."

Oliver's growing impatient. He's clicking his fingers on his thigh, a constant thumping that grows faster and faster with each passing second. The boy doesn't want to be here, but he has no choice. He lifts up his head and looks the King in the eye, well aware of the fact that this is not his world and the man he is dealing is not his Arthur.  
>"This world is <em>mad<em>. How...How can you live to see it run like this? It makes a total fool of everything a nation has worked hard to achieve –" An acidic green gaze stops him cold. His blood turns to ice in his veins.

"Nations? You know of the nations?"

_Shit. "Well_. I mean like countries, you know? Those accumulations of peoples and cultures and shit. I mean, what else could I be talking about?" He knows that Oliver is not convinced so he only smiles nervously instead, trying to look as confused as he possibly can.

"I see."

Then, Oliver looms closer than ever before. He can see every pockmark, every toil of war etched deep in his skin, and the violet begs under his eyes that could not be hidden under the guise of make-up. He nears close, his eyes a brighter green than ever before – no doubt full of the unadulterated magic that must flow through his veins – and once again, he _grins _that smile of sheer _madness._

_ "_You know something! You know something you're not telling me!"

He pulls back as far as he can, smacking his head on the headboard as a result. The smile on the other man's face fades and his eyes dim. A look of almost hurt passes over his face like a dying cloud before being replaced with a façade of stony coldness.

A cold hand, freezing and absolutely pale, slides up the jawline of Alfred's face, coming only to pet the upper bump of his cheek in soothing circles that chilled him to the bone. Oliver draws near and Alfred can't go any further – blocked by the iron-wrought headboard against the back of his head.

"Your magic is familiar. Are you sure you do not know whose it is?"

He's about as magical as a rock and he's pretty sure Arthur could give less of a fuck about his safety – at least, not caring enough to actually put spells on him for his protection. Alfred is a big boy and everyone knows that. Even Arthur understands that.

"I've told you, I _don't know –_" He stops in the middle of his sentence, halted silent when the parallel nation reaches up and wraps his fingers around Alfred's nose. The feeling is strange and he's can't breathe for a moment, panicking momentarily before exhaling air out of his mouth. Mouth-breathing just feels strange.

Nasally and out of breath, he speaks:  
>"What the <em>fuck <em>are you doing_ –_"

"I don't appreciate being lied to."

And then, with a sudden strength the original Arthur never possessed, Oliver gives a good _yank _on his nose and Alfred's sent screaming with a sudden, _blinding _pain that _reeks _of magic.

**XXX**

"_And a gentleman's pocketwatch stays by his heart, and that's where the damage can start._"

_The Watchmaker's Apprentice _by The Clockwork Quartet

_Hahahahaha, _I suck. This short and I apologise for it being so. I'm a tad bit busy.

This summer – I promised to write some sort of teenaged love story novel in order to keep myself from spontaneously combusting. As much as I would like to immolate, I think I might do it, but it seems that it might fuck every other project though. I really want to finish this story seeing as I've already got everything figured out.

I suppose I should finish my exams though.

Anyway, it might be a bit until I finish the next chapter. I've already written it, but it needs major editing. See you until next time, guys.


	7. Official Author's Note

Offical Author's Note!

I guess I really should have put this out months ago, but I have been rather busy I'm afraid. I suppose you guys should at least be included in this.

To make this short and sweet – I've been having a serious of complicated health problems that has been affecting my work ethic and my over all health. Since September, I've been complaining of pains in my lower right side – which we previously thought to be appendicitis – but after a CT scan, we found out it was actually an infection on my kidney. After weeks of on and off pain and three different pill subscriptions, the pain disapepars for a bit but somehow, I end up at the local hospital for more tests and blah blah blah. Pretty much at some point, we end up back at the Primary after that and I discover that I have what is called the 'pancake kidney.' Really, it's called Renal ectopia and it is this completely normal birth defect in where one of the kidneys is misplaced in the human body. We took this in stride as I learnt I would never be able to deal with sports or ride a rollercoaster again, but the pain comes back and I'm forced to go get a Mri.

However, that doesn't stop there. My right kidney is located in my pelvis area (unlike my left one that is in a normal spot at the lower edge of the rib-cage), but it is in the _front_. We discovered this from the radioologist who had wanted to meet me after the fact that I've become a regular patient to the doctor's office and hospital. He revealed to us that my kidney is completely _unprotected by anything_. Meaning to say if you were to come up to me and poke at my belly – you could physically touch my kidney.

And these last two days, well, the pain came back even worse then it ever has been. I'm feeling utterly nasueous and light-headed, and there is a constant pain in both of my sides. It showed up Sunday evening and has stayed ever since.

Today, I went to the doctor's to get this checked out. We spent however in the doctor's office and really didn't get much accomplished, however my doctor did discover that my pelvic is _movable_. I had already known this, as before I had known as my 'special' kidney' I had fucked around with moving it because I thought it was some sort of a floating mass and uh, not my kidney. When my doctor discovered that my kidney is not only in the wrong place and in _front_, she grew even more worried when I told her that I was able to move it from my right side all the way to the other side.

So, now, I'm set for a meeting with a urologist to discuss surgery on my kidney. Either they're going to be moving my kidney back into place (or at least making sure it doesn't move) or they're going to be...uh removing it, if the situation is like my mother's and it's grown infected/inflamed due to its horrible position and lack of protection.

I'm afraid that as a result of this, I do not know when I will be returning to any of my stories. I had plans to actually finish the chapter I'm working on over break, but there is a good chance I will be going into surgery and be unable to write for some time.

Of course, I'm not completely incompetent! Before my illness took a dreadful turn, I actually managed to work on the chapter itself. There is very little of it, but for right now - it's all I can offer.

* * *

><p><strong>Ash and Blaze<strong>

Seven: _Magic_

_X_

"_Can I provide a sanctuary to shield you from a world that preys_?" Mighty Rivers Run by _Globus_

X

Twelve days into Alfred's disappearance, Arthur woke up screaming on the thirteenth day.

A ravishing pain tore at the insides of his body, viciously clawing and scratching its bloody out of the mortal confines of its tomb. Terror seep es from every pore, setting his nerves on fire as the pain spreads throughout him. The house around him is silent; the members of a once large empire have abandoned its walls, leaving not a soul to hear the howls of a perishing king.

A gasp escapes from the screaming throat, and he chokes.

_London is on fire_. _Everyone is dead. Everyone is __**dead – **_

The monster lingers in his chest, breaking his ribs and kicking at his lung so he wheezes out blood instead of air beneath the pitiful screaming, and it cruelly steals away his breath so that the screams ebb out into a silent howl. When the monster within bites into his heart, ripping out flesh and organ, his back arches and his mouth splits into the shape of an ugly scream whose silence is mocked by the empty ceiling above him.

X

"_Demons await where the mighty rivers run. Children, sail on!" _Mighty Rivers Run by _Globus. _

X

* * *

><p>All right, I'm so sorry that this is all I have to offer you after six months of inactivity.<p>

I promise that I will come back though! As soon as I can. I assure you - I really don't want to leave this story behind.


	8. Magic

**Level II**

Seven: _Magic_

_X_

"_Can I provide a sanctuary to shield you from a world that preys_?" Mighty Rivers Run by _Globus_

X

Twelve days into Alfred's disappearance, it is on the thirteenth day that Arthur wakes up screaming.

Before he can even stop, he is silenced. Darkness forces it way down his throat, silencing his echoing yells. It squirms down his raw throat, ripping up his skin and shredding his vocal cords to pieces. Rearing pain tears its way throughout him as the darkness tries to make itself deep at home within him. It burrows in his organs and drinks at his blood, searching and searching for something that isn't there.

_It's looking for what never was. _He thinks desperately as trembling pain tears throughout him. _It's looking for my soul. _

It rattles his bones and shakes his core, viciously clawing and scratching its way throughout the confines of its fleshy tomb. He cannot help but feel the terror seep from every pore as the darkness poisons him from within, feeling his nerves immolate as the monster burrows deeper and deeper and deeper in search of something that he could never have, never will have, searching for the _soul _-

Around him, he feels the looming silence of the house press in on its humble; the members of a once large empire having abandoned its pristine walls, leaving the silence to comfort the unheard howls of a perishing king.

Memories never his invade the sanctity of his private thoughts, forcing images that could never be to come to horrible light. They sweep in from the darkness, flooding his mind and pulling him under to witness their awfulness. Stolen from the eyes of a man he's never met, Arthur can only watch as the memory of a worn pocket watch breaking replays itself over and over and over a_nd over and over again _while the world around it _burns. _

_London is on fire_. _Everyone is dead. Everyone is __**dead –**_

_He's broken the rule. He's broken the rule! Time is going to unravel. All of humanity is going to _

_Man has hold of the clock_

_We have nothing – _

_- choice. _

_**I am God.**_

When his thoughts clear, the monster sneers from within his chest, breaking his ribs and kicking at his lungs. He wheezes out blood instead of air, and it cruelly steals away his breath so that his pitiful gasping beneath the darkness clogging his throat ebbs away into silent nothing. When the monster within bites into his heart, ripping out flesh and organ and blood in a fashion that makes him feel human, his back arches and his mouth splits into the shape of an ugly scream whose silence is all but _mocked_ by the empty ceiling above him.

A gasp eventually is all that escapes from the screaming throat, and he chokes. His trembling hands claw away at his own throat, trying to breathe air that he's suddenly been cut from.

And then, beneath the feel of the monster that swallows all else, he feels it. He feels it, deep beneath the darkness that has devoured his screams and eaten his bones – the _magic_.

It's a strange feeling. It's such a _strange _feeling, even so beneath the terror and the pain having its wicked way with his body. It is the feel of magic – the feel of magic that is not his, not Norway's, not Romania's, not Ireland, Scotland or Wales'.

Even worse, it's the feel of magic that is _evil_.

Evil magic is something that he has worked so hard to _contain_. A thousand years of work; a thousand years of effort to squash to what should never be. A thousand years dedicated to the eradication of the evil – the destruction of the poison that threatened to squander the sanctity of magic. Magic is not supposed to be good or evil. It is not supposed to take a side for when it does the consequences are _dire_. When magic take a a side, people die. Countless people die in the battle to preserve this magic – whether good or bad it does not matter for it's all the same. Both sides defend their sides to the end, and thousands get caught in the cross-fire.

The fact that this magic is invading him now, after a thousand of years of hard work to keep evil and good magic from poisoning the natural world, could only rub Arthur the wrong way. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly _wrong_.

Settling down at last, he fruitlessly pulls at his chest, clawing away at the skin and cloth there hiding away the bleeding mess of his ancient heart. He can feel the darkness prowl deep beneath; feel it feed on the heart that is the closest thing he has to a soul. Realization is beginning to at least make its way back in through the pain and his diminishing terror. It kicks in his teeth and pulls at his hair and then he knows.

_Someone's tampering with the wards. _

That thought alone is enough to send anger coursing violently throughout his veins. It flushes out the tendrils of the darkness, sending it screaming and crawling deeper and deeper within. He closes his eyes and wills it away, gritting his teeth as it sinks in its claws and tries to hold on.

When he closes his eyes, images rain down him. _Alfred is screaming, screaming, and absinthe eyes bear witness to the show of fear. The tick of a clock is the only thing to bring down _judgement_ upon them _both -

Memories assault him once more. _Alfred I would never break your trust like that. Understand my love. Understand that I would do everything for you and for you I would turn the world. Alfred, you are my love. Bring me the key and I will make you a god._

His lungs constrict and release an agonizing scream of terror that shatters his pride. It tears its way out of his throat and realization kicks in utterly. It settles on his chest like a frightful weight that threatens to crush his lungs and steal away his breath forever.

_Someone has America. _

The thought terrifies him to the very core. It's an unbearable thought, an unbearable thought that he can't stand to ever stomach or even hear in ears that refuse to hear what he wants. It's an unbearable thought that turns the world on the side, turns the sky red and turns the sea with uncontrollable rage. His veins are on fire and the monster screams, gurgling in its own darkness as Arthur's sudden overwhelming _ire._

It is a law known by all – an unspoken rule cast over Europe and the world when their relationship was reborn decades after their countless wars. You can fuck with Alfred. You can call him names, can hurt him, kick him or even take a gun to his head. You can declare war and Arthur will be at his side.

But you cannot _take _Alfred.

Especially so when Alfred is no one's to _take_.

(_A fact he learned the hard way_.)

And then, in the amidst of his temper reaching critical levels, it stops.

Just like that, it _stops_.

It stops with such a certainty that he finds himself _praying _that the attempt was halted and that the wards are still working.

Deep down though, he knew that even that was too much to be asking.

After a moment of terse silence, he realises that he's quivering like a small child. He can't help but quietly laugh though, regretting it instantly as it rubs at his throat, and runs his hands over his face.

"Fuck." He says after another minute passes by slowly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Slowly, he can't help but weakly go through the motions after that. He removes himself from his bed with sluggish limbs and dying muscles before getting changed from the night clothing positively with sticky sweat. From there on, the day proceeds as normal – as if he hadn't woken up screaming with dark magic cramming its way down his throat as if he was a porn star who hated their job.

He falls into his morning routine at the very last – the monotony of it all just being enough to take control of his thoughts. He feeds the birds, feeds the cat, feed the animals, feeds the imaginary creatures who don't need food but still utterly adore when he scatters the broken pieces of mystical food he shouldn't have all over the ground. He then dusts the bookshelves, the tables, the cracks of the house and sweeps in the between places of his home, knowing that his 'guests' aren't too fond of the fact that he often or naught lets his mess get into the way of their entrance. After all, it's not like the fey drop in often, only coming to seek solace or wisdom from him when the court politics get too much to handle or they think themselves high and mighty and believe that killing him will rid them of the human problem that plague them. He shakes his head, unable to believe that some fey are still believing that they can eradicate the humans so easily and return from the hell that can the astral plane. After all, humans may not be forever, but nations are and there is nothing that can kill him –

(_only betrayal and a broken heart, _a sadistic voice murmurs in his ear.)

He forgets it then. He ignores it and shoves it away and swaps his broom at the thresholds and landings and the floors and just ends up cleaning the whole house instead to drown out the traitorous voice that echoes in his ears. (_Is it him_, he catches himself thinking more than once_, this the voice of the man who has what is – _) Broken glass cuts up his hand and it wills within moments, creating enough of a distraction for him to swallow that train of thought forever.

When he at last makes into his kitchen, he finally puts the kettle on the stove to boil and collapses into a chair to await the tedious time to takes for the water to boil. He could always heat it himself, by way of the magic or the microwave, but both leave a funny taste in his mouth that isn't fully burned away by the taste of whatever tea he decides to have. Perhaps some chamomile, or even ginseng today –

The doorbell rings.

And it rings.

And _rings_.

Not just once, not just twice, but over and over again. He swears, cursing the whoever the fuckface is at his door. The doorbell is supposed to played full in its _entirety_. That's why he swung for such a doorbell that played such nice music. After all, if he had gone with the incessant buzzing one that's all the rage these days, he would have indefinitely shot any poor bastard who had shown up at his door – be it even the sweet lady next door or the bastard post man whose jokes are never funny (and another reason Arthur never leaves his house.)

He eventually gets out of his chair a little too aggressively and makes his way back out into the foyer and towards the front door. An umbrella has fallen out of its holder and he knows he didn't miss that when on his cleaning spree and ignores it in favour of the door which is now shuddering slightly with the raps of someone's infernal knockings.

He's half tempted to not even answer. However, the door was a gift and he's fond of the glass stained into its frame. Even if the picture on the glass is such a wrong depiction of the Fair Folk and their Ways. It's still gorgeous, even if a little gaudy.

Arthur eventually sighs, realising that the door would probably shatter if the scatterbrain continued on as they are. He resigns himself, readjusts his argy-le sweater and rearranges his face into the most disgruntled expression he can manage before throwing open the door.

"What you bloody fuckin' want – "

He stops.

He stops dead in his tracks, stops dead in his thought, his speech, his everything. He can feel the cold heart in his chest stop dead.

In his terror, in his horror, he almost doesn't recognise the face before him.

_Alfred_.

The ice flees from his veins and releases his heart from the prison the cold has trapped him in. He can't help but smile, can't help but chuckle and laugh and awkwardly smile at Alfred. All that terror, all that awfulness he experienced this morning had been for naught – Alfred is safe and sound and he's here, he's _here – _

"Oh, it's _you_, Alfred. What are you doing here?" Arthur then finally takes a look at the companion Alfred has strung along with him and he stops. He stops once more and stares before he can feel the ever too familiar feeling of hatred rush into veins, flushing out the cold and replacing it with sheer _loathing – _

"What in fuck are you doing with that bastard?"

Denmark sneers. He looks as ugly as he ever has, even more so with his short hair and the almost invisible cut only Arthur knows the existence of. (_because I put it there, _he snarls in memory of the slaughtered villages and the world burning.)

"Piss off, douchebag!" The Nordic barks. "You don't even fuckin' get the _right _to talk to me when you can't even fuckin' tell your own goddamn sons apart!"

"What...What are you talk –" It is then he takes a look at Alfred and his anger, his hatred, goes out like a light, smothered once more by that terrifying ice that rushes into his veins and freezes his heart. The violet eyes stare back at him with a cool sadness, the cool slight of a child who wishes to be loved and recognised but never is, and Arthur realises that he's fucked up.

"Oh bloody hell," he curses. "I'm so sorry, Matthew –"

"And shitty parent of the year award goes to the prick with the pubic hair eyebrows! Looks like we won't be giving that one to –" Next to him, Matthew silences him with a glare and turns back to face Arthur with an unsettling look in his face.

"We have a problem," Matthew tells him. "Alfred's missing."

And there is it, the admission of everything he fears. Arthur nearly crumbles, catching himself on the door-frame, suddenly reminded of it all – suddenly reminded of the monster in his chest, the monster devouring his heart and looking for the soul he does not have, and the eerie voice who whispers in his ear and smiles against the immortal skin of which all nations wear like a mask.

"I knew it," he says more to himself than either of the two before him, but they catch it. They catch it and look at him and he can feel their the accusations boil up within them both. They're going to accuse him of knowing something, of knowing of whatever has happened to Alfred, but he doesn't know. He doesn't know, he doesn't know, and all he knows is that Alfred's possibly dead and the wards placed on him as a young boy are shattering.

_Or already have and he is dead_, that voice murmurs, but it's lying and Arthur knows it. A thousand years of living and there is not a soul who can lie to him (_all but his sons_).

"What the fuck do you know?" Denmark demands. "That little shit of yours hasn't even been gone that long. Unless...Unless you've got something to do with it! This is all some big put together bullshit, ain't it? You guys are all in this together and Prussia's hiding somewhere in the bushes with a camera and Holland's already shit-faced high somewhere in the gutters of Manchester –"

"How many times do I have to tell you!" Matthew says with an irritable note in his voice, and Arthur gets the feeling that this conversation has happened a lot more often. "I am _not _shitting around!"

"Then what about fuckin' Pop-pop over here? I doubt his fuckin mumbo-wumbo is enough to tell us that America's pissed himself off somewhere. What does he know?"

"I shouldn't have let you drink that entire case yourself," Matthew answers more to himself before raising his voice and addressing the angering Dane. "Would you shut the fuck up so we can get some _fucking _answers?" He turns to Arthur then with rising violence in his eyes and all parts of his passive personality being swallowed up by the minutes passing where he remains unknowing of what he needs.

"Arthur, what do you know?"

"This is a talk for indoors, lad," he says in reserve. He moves out of the way to let the two pass (sneering to himself when Denmark begins to bitch about his taste in décor) and shuts the door close behind him. When it clicks, Denmark rounds on him, insinuating all types of bullshit that send all logic and reason flying out the window.

Heaven forbid, this clot think he knows whatever the hell is going on.

"Look, you scatterbrained divvy _ –!"_

"You little fuckin' _shit –" _Denmark snarls, and Matthew just manages to hold the Dane back. When a grunt, Matthew tosses him back, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"Just _stop _it! Stop being fucking children! This is a serious problem right here and how the fuck do you handle it? By screaming at one another and calling each other names. This is not a world meeting, you _twits_."

Matthew's angry and screaming, and this is when Arthur realises that Matthew has so much more in stake here. This is his brother, his blood, his only living family who truly sees him they are mentioning. They all forget, all forget who Matthew is, what his country is, and he becomes the scapegoat for his brother who cannot handle the screaming. Who cannot handle the blame. In the end, Alfred is the only one who Matthew has.

England can't help but feel pity for the other nation who in these dark times is still overshadowed by the very thought of his bigger brother.

(_Not here, _it says)

"Alfred is missing," Matthew tells him in a much calmer, much quieter voice. "Alfred is missing, and I don't know where he is. You said something about knowing. What do you know, Arthur?"

Before he can answer, there is the angry whistling of his kettle in the kitchen blowing its horn to tell him that the water has finally reached where it needs to be. Matthew settles him with a glare, accusing him of planning this, before following him to the kitchen where Denmark trails in unhappily. They settle in at his little table nooked in the corner and he goes about preparing tea for the three of them.

"Put a little spit-fire in mine, would ya?" The Dane asks. "I like being drunk when talking to you."

"Do you want actual spit in it, or should I take pity on you and actually use alcohol this time?"

"Don't." Matthew says. "Don't even dare. The both of you. Just make your tea and put a shot of that Irish Whiskey I know you keep laying about it."

"It's for cooking!"

Matthew snorts. "Mmhmm. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Arthur. Ireland makes damn good Whiskey, and we both know it."

Having lost the battle, he reaches for the bottle hidden in the cabinets above his head. "I shouldn't have let you drink as a child."

"I would have been the better parent, you know. I would have let little Vinland drink and party and smoke and do whatever the hell he wanted because Christianity was so uncool then. You're such a shitty parent, England. Man, can't even tell your own fuckin' kids apart."

"You couldn't adapt to the wilderness of Canada, asshole, and left me to rot after your fuckin' settlement collapsed." Canada sneered at him. "So, don't bitch and moan about bad parenting, you prick, and don't call me Vinland."

In the Dane's shocked silence, Matthew sighs and rubs his eyes. "I'm sorry, Matthias. It's been a long day, and you're hungover still, and Arthur has yet to divulge any true information. Arthur, are you going to tell us or are we just wasting our time here?"

England brings the drinks to the table before at last settling into his own seat. He takes a sip of his drink, revelling in its warmth and its burn (he snuck a shot of his own in all of their drinks) before wrapping his hands around the cup. There's a crack on the edge –

"Arthur?"

"As you know, I am a user of the arcane arts–"

"Just mumbo-wumbo bullshit, of course –"

" - _and _beyond my ability to traverse the astral plain quite easily, I am particularly skilled in the usage of defensive magic. Quite skilled, seeing as I have been countlessly invaded my _entire _immortal life." Denmark waggled his fingers and England jeers at him before continuing. "When you two were lads, it was a time where everyone was vying for control over you both, myself included. Space was beginning to run short once more in Europe, and the Dark continent was too wild, too mad, for any sane European to wander. With naught the technology to traverse the sands of Africa we had in the nineteenth century, Europe had no choice but to push to the New World and fight. Before I won you from France in that damned war, Alfred had already been left alone for periods too long in between, and people were beginning to notice. Too selfish to lose what I believed to be rightfully mine, I warded young Alfred, and he has been so ever since. When I took you under my wing, I did the same, although yours are much stronger because we have been in contact. Alfred...I reinforced his whenever I could, but they would never match up to par with yours."

"What does this have to do with anything? You cast bullshit on your sons, woohoo! What happened to the fucker –"

Matthew quiets Matthias with an angry glare, and Arthur can't help but fleer at him from over the boy's shoulder.

"What happened to Alfred?" Matthew asks again, and Arthur knows this time he cannot escape the truth.

"It was this morning when I felt it," Arthur starts. "This morning, I felt something attack Alfred's wards. There is absolutely nothing in this universe that has the power to hurt those wards – let alone to get through them and come back to me. Someone, or some_thing_, broke through my wards and attacked me. It tried to get at my soul, but can't have one if you're who we are, after all." He takes a sobering sip of his tea. The unnerving stares of the two are weighing in on him, and they think he has more.

And to a point, he does.

"It tried to eat me alive from within – to harvest my magic and bring it back to whomever it was controlling. However, it was revoked too soon. Something happened to stop the breaking of your wards, and I do not know what it is. It may have been the wards itself, or the caster may have gotten distracted. They may have not even know they were there at all to begin with."

"Are they in place?" Matthew asks.

"I don't know, lad." He admits. (_It pains him_.) "I don't know. It feels as if they're still there, but...at the same time, not at all. They're hanging on by threads. Given time, they will repair themselves, but Alfred is in danger, and the wards in their current state will not handle another attack. But I have said enough. What are you both doing here, darkening my doorstep? Do you know where Alfred is?"

There is a shared silence between the two of them, and Arthur feels his heart plummet. They do not know the boy is, and they were hoping that Arthur had the answers. And for once, he does not. For once, the great oracle of knowledge that he claims himself to be, he does not know anything. After a silent minute, Denmark speaks.

"You're not gonna believe this one, Arthur. I mean for real – you are not going to believe this at all."

"And who are to judge what I believe and what I do not?"

"Because he had a tough time convincing even _me." _

"Oh this I _have _to hear this The Great Dane – who believes that gullible has been written on the ceiling – expressed doubt in something! Pray tell, Matthew, what is this great thing that has even the _greatest_ minds hesitating?"

"No need to be a little – Don't give me look, Matthew. He's being a little shit, and you know it! You're sitting right there!"

But instead of responding, Matthew just looks into his tea silently. He stares for a good moment, as if the dark surface is speaking to him in a tongue only the Canadian can hear before raising his head and at last speaking.

"You might want to get the rest of the bottle, Arthur."

"You're telling _me _to drink? Lad, just get it over with. Where is America, Matthew? Is he dead?" He can feel the horror creeping in on him and he snorts it away. "Tell me, did he get lost somewhere again?"

Matthew closes his eyes and doesn't breathe. He holds himself still, struggling not to breathe, not to make a sound before it's all ruined. At last, he can no longer hold it before those eyes flash open, drowning in anger and sorrow and disbelief, and he speaks the words that send Arthur spiralling.

"Alfred's gone. He's thrown himself into another universe."

X

"_Demons await where the mighty rivers run. Children, sail on!" _Mighty Rivers Run by _Globus. _

X

AN:

LOOK, THE DEAD RISES.

Oh man, that's a poor joke – especially seeing as what I left off on. So, you guys are probably all wondering where the hell I've been the last six, seven months, eh? Well, the good news – I didn't end up getting surgery!

Bad news, they still fucking don't know what's wrong with me. I went into that office in December and came out absolutely devastated. I went in thinking – finally, we're going to know what the hell is wrong with me! We're going to finally go to a professional who can tell me what's wrong! Huzzah!

I was fucking wrong.

The waiting room was over-crowded and the Doctor was a fucking _asshole_. He left us waiting in a waiting room for at least an hour and then left us in a patient room for at least another hour. Then when he got there – he was there for fucking no more than _ten minutes. _

And do you know what he told me?

"_There's nothing wrong with you. You're probably over-exaggerating the pain_."

And let me say – GO FUCK YOURSELF. GO FUCKING FUCK YOURSELF, YOU PRICK.

And this was seven months ago and I'm STILL pissed. The guy wrote us off within _five _minutes. I'm pretty sure he never read my file or read anything of the stuff my primary doctor sent him, completely basing his opinion on what I told him there (which was pretty much - "It hurts sometimes and is aggravated by physical activity.") and when I told him I could _move _it – he pretty much told me "Lol that's not possible." despite the fact that before I knew what it was, I would spend my evenings laying in bed moving the mass back and forth across my stomach (and once had my best friend to move it to see that I wasn't crazy).

I eventually got over it somewhat, learning to deal with the bullshit more or less. Six months later, the asshole invites me back, despite being told nothing was wrong with me last time, and pretty much tells me the same goddamn thing – at least this time telling me that "lol it's probably your muscles". Pretty sure he only said that because he had an intern with him at the time. Personally, in my opinion – he can go fuck himself. He wrote me off and told me not to worry about my kidneys – despite the fact that kidney problems run in my family and this was the age that my mother ended up getting her kidney partially removed due to a bad infection that the doctors couldn't find and wrote her pills that incidentally began her life-long drug habit. This is the same doctor that removed her kidney actually, so you would think "oh hey, maybe we should keep an eye on this, seeing as I've already put one family member under the knife – nah, we'll just deal with the problem when it comes."

My grandma tells me I'm being irrationally angry about this, and I guess I am, _but _I don't like being left without answers. I don't like being brushed off, being told I don't know jackshit, or being told that I'm wasting someone's time when I have a problem that could possibly end in the removal of _my fucking kidney_. I guess I wouldn't be as mad if he hadn't been a _prick _and had given me _ten minutes of his precious fucking time _to sit down and tell me what _he _thought was wrong because _obviously all the other fucking doctors were __**wrong**_ instead of accusing me of wasting his time and telling my family and I to get the hell out of his office.

And after all that, my aunt died in February and I had to attend her wake on my birthday (happy birthday to me) and it destroyed all possibilities of me writing well for months.

So, please forgive my absence. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things and I can only hope that I can see this story through to the end.


End file.
